The day began with an announcement that made every member of the Shiratorizawa volleyball team groan internally.

Coach Washijō, stern and short-tempered as ever, wheeled out a cart stacked high with buckets, mops, rags, and bottles of wax. His bark cut across the gym like a whip,

“If you want to train in a facility worthy of champions, then you’ll make it look like one! Today, we clean until it shines. The gym should be spotless when we’re done — no excuses!”

There was no arguing.

Each player received their portion of tools, whether it was a heavy mop, a bucket filled to the brim with water and soap, or towels for polishing the wooden floor.

Even Ushijima, who typically lived and breathed nothing but volleyball, accepted his mop without complaint.

The tall captain simply nodded once, already beginning to wring it out over the bucket before setting to work.

Tendō, on the other hand, groaned dramatically, leaning the mop against his shoulder like a burdensome weapon.

“I thought we were here to smash balls, not to scrub them…” he whined, though there was amusement in his voice.

He dragged his mop along the floor in exaggerated swirls, humming to himself, before flashing a mischievous grin at you. “Guess Monster, now a Mop Monster!”

Across the court, Semi knelt with a towel, scrubbing stubborn spots of scuff near the baseline.

“Quit messing around and actually clean, Tendō,” he muttered, though the bite in his words was softened by the tired sigh that followed. Sweat already dotted his forehead, the effort of polishing the wood clear.

Meanwhile, Shirabu crouched by the wall, carefully stacking folded towels in neat piles while muttering something about how this was a waste of valuable practice time.

His face, however, betrayed his focus as he lined everything up with precise edges.

Yamagata and Reon carried water buckets back and forth, sloshing soap across the wide expanse of the floor.

Reon, steady as ever, kept a calm rhythm to his work, wiping down the bleachers and sweeping under them with patient determination.

Yamagata, by contrast, complained constantly, though he never stopped moving. “This is going to take forever!” he shouted, scrubbing a corner like it had personally offended him.

Ushijima kept his pace steady, dragging his mop across the floorboards with the same unflinching energy he devoted to practice.

His movements were mechanical, consistent, never tiring. It was no different from how he trained — efficient and powerful. He didn’t complain once.

And then there was Goshiki, who seemed to be putting the most unnecessary effort into his section of the floor.

He was on his hands and knees, towel clutched tight, scrubbing furiously with a determined glare.

“If I can’t be the ace, then at least I’ll be the best cleaner!” he declared, as though polishing wood would somehow push him higher in rank. His voice cracked from exertion, but his arms never slowed.

Tendō laughed loudly, flopping dramatically onto the floor and dragging his mop across the surface like a child. “Look at Goshiki go! He’s gonna polish a hole straight through the gym at this rate.”

Shirabu snapped back without looking up. “At least he’s actually doing something, unlike you.”

The hours dragged, the sounds of scrubbing, splashing, and occasional complaints echoing through the gym.

Buckets were refilled again and again, rags grew damp and dirty, and the wooden floor began to gleam under the collective effort of the team.

At one point, Tendō tossed a wet rag directly at Semi, hitting him square in the back. Semi whirled around, face red, about to yell — until Washijō’s cane smacked sharply against the bleachers.

“Focus! This isn’t playtime!” The entire team froze, muttering quiet apologies before bowing their heads and returning to work.