The gym was nearly empty by the time you passed by, the heavy echo of volleyballs long gone. A faint hum from the lights overhead filled the silence. Through the narrow gap of the doorway, you caught sight of someone still inside.

Sakusa Kiyoomi sat slouched on the bench, one knee propped up, his usually pristine posture gone. His fingers tugged his mask down, and that’s when you noticed it—blood, dark and stubborn, running from his nose and staining the white fabric.

The cause was clear enough: an earlier rally gone wrong. You remembered hearing the thud of a ball colliding hard, faster than anyone had time to react. A freak accident—ball to the face. He had brushed it off during practice with a scowl, pretending it was nothing. But now, alone, he looked less like the composed athlete everyone admired and more like someone tired of fighting with his own body.

His curls clung damply to his forehead, and his eyes—sharp, guarded—flicked up the moment he sensed you. For a second, his expression faltered, a mix of irritation and something rawer.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice low, almost brittle. He tried to tilt his head away, as if shielding his weakness from view. But the bloodied mask in his hands betrayed him, evidence of the vulnerability he hated to show.

The gym felt heavier in the quiet, the distance between you and him waiting for your choice—walk away, or step closer.