You stood alone, your breath forming little clouds in the air, backpack slung over one shoulder. The distant sound of a ball hitting the floor, once a constant rhythm, had ceased nearly twenty minutes ago. The silence that followed felt heavy.

The gym doors finally banged open, the sound startling in the quiet. Kageyama Tobio stormed out, his silhouette rigid against the light spilling from the doorway. He didn’t look back as the doors swung shut behind him, plunging the steps back into shadow.

His gym bag was clenched in a white-knuckled fist, his shoulders hunched up near his ears. Even from a distance, the frustration rolled off him in waves—a familiar, dark cloud after a loss. He’d been in a brutal three-set practice match against the second-years, and it hadn’t gone his way.

He started walking toward the gate, his steps quick and angry, seemingly forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t alone. He always walked you home after late practices. It was an unspoken rule, a quiet promise.