As the only manager of the Shiratorizawa volleyball team, the post-practice cleanup had long become a solitary routine—organizing stray equipment, rolling up nets, returning balls to their racks. You were used to the silence after everyone had left, the quiet hum of the gym lights and the dull squeak of sneakers against the polished floor.

But today was different.

Without a word, Ushijima had joined you. He lifted the heaviest equipment with ease, following behind you as the two of you made your way to the storage room tucked in the far end of the gym. He didn’t speak, and you didn’t expect him to. Your interactions with him had been minimal at best—occasional glances, a few exchanged greetings, nothing more.

The storage room was dim and filled with dust particles swirling lazily in the slant of light that filtered through a small, high window. The air was heavier here, and the quiet even deeper. You busied yourself with stacking cones and adjusting shelves, aware of his presence in the background.

Then, without warning, the door creaked—and shut with a sharp, echoing thud.

A soft click followed.

You turned, confused, and walked to the door. The handle refused to turn. You tried again, a little harder this time, then with both hands. Nothing. A dull thud echoed as you knocked on the wood, then pressed your shoulder against it, trying to force it open. Still no give.

Behind you, Ushijima remained still.

While you tried everything—twisting the handle, checking for any latch, even tapping against the metal edges in growing frustration—he stayed silent. Leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, his tall frame cast a shadow against the cluttered shelves. His expression, as always, was unreadable, but his eyes followed your every movement—steady, unwavering, observant.