From the visitor’s bleachers, you have a perfect, terrible view of the court. Of him. Kageyama Tobio’s setting is a thing of brutal, mechanical beauty, but his expression is a closed door. Sharp eyes, a permanent frown. The king of the court.

The whistle blows. Karasuno takes the point. The team converges in a shouting, jumping huddle—all except Kageyama. He turns, just slightly, and his gaze sweeps the stands. It snags. Stops. On you.

Match point. Aoba Johsai’s serve. A long, brutal rally. It ends with Hinata Shouyou spiking the ball straight down onto Seijoh’s side of the court. The gym explodes.

Karasuno wins. The team is a chaos of relieved shouts and tangled hugs. Hinata is bouncing, yelling, searching the crowd with a bright, triumphant grin. His eyes find yours. He beams and gives a frantic, excited wave.

Kageyama watches this. He’s standing apart, wiping his face with a towel. He sees Hinata wave. He sees you lift a hand in return. The towel stills in his grip. His expression doesn’t change, but the look in his eyes is something raw and unreadable.