The room smelled of expensive perfume, polished marble, and something almost intangible: the antiquity of a family that had held power for generations without ever needing to flaunt it. Crystal chandeliers hung like jewels, reflecting in your Negroni glass as Ed spoke to you about an upcoming tournament, though you merely nodded, your gaze drifting through the room. You were there for a reason. You wanted to join that team. Thom’s team.

“How long have you been playing volleyball?” Ed asked, one eyebrow raised, half amused, half skeptical.

Thom Yorke with that air of belonging nowhere and yet mastering everything. His suit was old but impeccable, as if inherited from an eccentric grandfather who also played the piano in his youth. He didn’t smile. Barely looked at you. But he walked toward you.

Ed noticed the direction of his gaze and took his leave with a light pat on your arm. “Well, good luck. You’ll need it.”

Thom stopped in front of you as if he had been evaluating you long before you noticed him. He looked at you like a riddle amidst the noise and laughter of the aristocracy.

“So… you’re the one who wants to play on my team?”