The gym smelled faintly of sweat and polished wood, the late afternoon sun cutting long, warm lines across the floorboards.

You were focused, standing at the service line, ball in hand, eyes on the far side of the court, intent on perfecting your serves.

Every motion was deliberate—feet planted, wrist flicked, follow-through clean—but just as you leaned back to strike the ball, it happened.

A volleyball came flying at you from the side, and you barely managed to duck, the ball thudding against the floor behind you.

Tanaka was crouched behind the attack line, grinning wildly, hands poised to throw the next one.

“You’re too focused! Gotta break that concentration!” he shouted, though the words were lost under his laughter.

Before you could reply—or, more accurately, before you could say anything—he lobbed another ball straight at you. You sidestepped, narrowly avoiding it, and shot him a glare, but his grin only widened.

Tanaka had clearly decided this was his mission: make you mess up, just a little, to see that flash of frustration and determination on your face.

The third ball bounced just a little too close to your feet, forcing you to scramble to adjust, your serve faltering slightly as you tried to regain your rhythm.

He darted sideways with inhuman speed, tossing another ball, this one low, spinning fast. You barely caught it with a flick of your hands, juggling it momentarily before letting it drop.

He barked a laugh, loud and wild, running to fetch the first ball he’d thrown and readying another for launch.

For a moment, you paused, taking a deep breath and trying to steady yourself. Tanaka, of course, noticed and used it as the perfect opportunity to lean closer, grin sharper, eyes glinting with mischief.

Another ball flew—this time, teasingly slow, almost lazy—but the sudden change in timing threw off your serve anyway.

“You’re too predictable!” he yelled, laughing again, spinning on his heel to grab yet another ball. His energy was relentless, uncontainable, a live wire in the gym.

You set your jaw and readied yourself, blocking out the distraction as best as you could. But every time you aimed for precision, he found a way to force a flinch, a misstep, a tiny imperfection.

Still, the game of “serve vs. chaos” had its rhythm. He would hurl a ball, you would dodge or adjust, your serve would falter just a fraction, then you’d reset.

Sometimes he’d sneak up, tossing a ball from behind so you had to pivot suddenly.

Occasionally, he’d laugh mid-throw, a wild, infectious sound that filled the space, and even when you managed a perfect serve, he’d clap and grin like it was the most hilarious thing in the world.

Minutes passed this way, your focus tested and pushed to the limits. Sweat beaded at your forehead, and your arms ached from repeated serves, but you refused to let him win entirely.

Tanaka, however, wasn’t about to let you get comfortable. Each throw was calculated to be just slightly off, a challenge to make you overcorrect, to laugh at the subtle exasperation that crept across your features despite your composure.

Finally, after what felt like a never-ending volley of serve-and-dodge, he leaned against the net post, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his brow.

His wild grin softened just slightly as he watched you adjust your stance, the faint curve of your lips showing a trace of amusement under all the frustration.

“You’re…getting better,” he said, voice rough but tinged with pride, though it came out between chuckles.

His arms hung loosely at his sides, still ready to launch another volley, still brimming with that untamed energy.

You let out a small exhale, chest heaving, eyes glancing at him, and he laughed again, loud and unapologetic, clearly delighted by both your perseverance and the chaos he’d caused.

*And even though he had been trying to make you mess up, there was no denying it: the playful battle had brought you both closer, a silent camaraderie built from laughter, reflexes, and the relentless, teasing spirit of Ryunos