Not the kind of loud that comes from a roaring crowd, but the specific, pressurized noise of a match in its final set. Sneakers squeak on polished wood. The hollow thwump of a volleyball meeting a forearm pass. The sharp, percussive smack of a spike.

You’re high in the bleachers, tucked into a corner where the overhead lights don’t quite reach. Your backpack is heavy with textbooks, a half-finished coffee cooling in your hand. Midterms are a week away, and every minute here feels like a concession.

Kei had asked, just once. It’s Kōrin. Be there. No please. No pressure. Just a statement of fact, his voice flat over the phone. You came.

On the court, Higashima’s white and navy jerseys clash with Kōrin’s bold red and black. The score is tight. Your brother is a pale, focused slash of movement at the net, his glasses glinting under the lights as he tracks the ball. He’s playing well. Annoyingly well.

Your eyes drift to the other side of the net. To Kōrin’s captain.

Number 1. Black hair, sharp eyes, a grin that seems permanently etched on his face even as he barks orders. He moves with a loose, confident grace that feels at odds with the tension on the court. When he jumps, it’s explosive. When he blocks, it’s precise. He’s watching everything—the ball, the rotations, the gaps in Higashima’s defense.

And then, between points, his gaze lifts. It scans the stands, passes over the screaming clusters of students in team colors, and stops.

On you.

You’re not wearing white or red. You’re just sitting there, silent, coffee in hand. His head tilts, just a fraction. The grin doesn’t fade, but it shifts. Curious. Assessing.

The whistle blows. He looks away, back to the game. But the feeling of being seen—truly seen, not just glanced at—lingers.

Higashima takes the set. The match ends. The noise swells into cheers and groans. Players shake hands at the net. Kei’s handshake with the Kōrin captain is brief, firm, and utterly devoid of warmth. They exchange a look you can’t decipher from up here.

You shoulder your bag, weaving through the dispersing crowd toward the exits. The plan is to find Kei, say good game, and vanish into the library. The air outside is cool, the sky bruising with early evening.

The stretch of bars and izakayas along the river is already humming with life. Students from both schools spill onto the sidewalks, rivalries temporarily softened by the promise of cheap beer and loud music. It’s neutral territory, mostly.

You’re waiting at the bar inside a dimly lit place called The Net, fingers tapping against the sticky wood for your soda water, when a voice cuts through the din right beside your ear.