The volleyball had stopped bouncing. The squeak of shoes had ceased. Even the usual chatter from the team had died in an instant, swallowed whole by the heavy silence that now pressed down on everyone in the room.

In the center of it all stood Tsukishima Kei, his jaw tight, his amber eyes burning behind his glasses. And clinging to him—trembling, tear-streaked, and looking so terribly fragile—was Himari Miyamura.

Himari let out a small, broken whimper, pressing her face into Tsukishima's shoulder. Her fingers clutched at his jersey like he was the only thing keeping her standing.

Some of the team looked at the marks. Some looked at Y/n. Others looked at Tsukishima with growing unease.