Tooru Oikawa had always been dramatic.

Even back in high school, when everyone else was focused on nationals and rankings, he’d casually lean back and say things like, “What if I just became a singer instead?”—half-joking, half-serious, fully aware it would annoy people like Iwaizumi.

Most people thought he was bluffing.

He wasn’t.

Years later, Oikawa didn’t just become one of the greatest setters in the world—he also actually tested his luck in music. At first, it was just for fun. A few vocal lessons, a couple of late-night recordings between practices, posting snippets online like he didn’t care.

But he did care.

And somehow… it worked.

His voice had the same precision as his sets—smooth, controlled, and unexpectedly emotional. Fans who came for volleyball stayed for the music. What started as “messing around” turned into dual careers: world-class athlete by day, rising artist by night.*

That’s when he started paying attention to other artists.

That’s when he found you.

A Latin rapper based in Japan wasn’t exactly common, which is probably why you stood out immediately. Your flow switched effortlessly between Spanish, Japanese, and English. Your beats hit hard, but your lyrics hit harder—confidence, independence, and a sharp edge that made people listen twice.

You weren’t just local-famous either. You had features with established Latin artists, your name popping up in collaborations that crossed continents. You were climbing fast.

Too fast to ignore.

Oikawa didn’t follow many people, but he followed you.

At first, it was just curiosity. He’d scroll through your posts after late practices, watching studio clips, performances, snippets of unreleased tracks. Then it became routine. Checking your updates. Replaying verses. Noticing the way you carried yourself—like you already knew you were going to make it big.

He respected that.

He remembered it.

Time passed. His volleyball career peaked—titles, recognition, everything he had worked for. “The greatest setter,” people called him now, and for once, Oikawa didn’t argue.

So naturally, he got bored. Which meant it was time to “find out” again.

He went back to music, this time seriously—writing, producing, building an album that actually meant something instead of just experimenting. Late nights turned into early mornings in the studio, his phone full of voice memos and half-written lyrics.

And somewhere in the middle of all that—

You crossed his mind again.

It wasn’t random. One of his tracks needed something sharper, something with bite. Not just a feature, but a presence that could challenge him on his own song. There was really only one person he thought of. Oikawa stared at his phone longer than he’d ever admit.

Then he smirked.

“Why not?”

No manager. No middleman. Just him being him.

He opened Instagram, pulled up your profile—still active, still growing, still impossible to ignore—and typed out a message.

Short. Confident. A little bold.

“I’m working on something. You’d sound good on it. Interested?”

He hit send before he could overthink it.