Inside, the energy is a physical thing. It smells like sweat, sunscreen, and the distinct anxiety of teenage boys trying to look cool. Tanaka and Nishinoya are practically vibrating in their seats, foreheads pressed to the glass.

The bus doors hiss open. A wall of humid, city-summer air and the distant, echoing thwump of volleyballs hits them all at once.

Karasuno files out into the chaos. The parking lot is a mosaic of team colors—deep blue, maroon, black and orange, white and burgundy. Tall figures in tracksuits stretch by luggage piles. Managers push carts stacked with ball cages. A group from a school with intimidatingly tall players—Date Tech, maybe—is already marching toward the complex entrance in a silent, brick-wall-like formation.

As the team fans out, grabbing bags from the undercarriage, other players glance over. Assessing. Sizing up the "Flightless Crows" who aren't so flightless anymore. The looks are quick, subtle. A raised eyebrow from a guy with bleached hair. A quiet nudge between two players in green jackets.

And then Y/n steps off the bus, last after Shimizu.

To Karasuno, it’s nothing. Y/n’s just Y/n. They’re already turning to ask if the first-aid kit made the trip.

But to the scattered players from Aoba Johsai, Fukurodani, Nekoma, and the rest, watching from across the asphalt? It’s a new variable. A face that doesn’t match any known player on Karasuno’s roster. A few looks linger a beat too long. A guy with a particularly impressive blond undercut squints, then shrugs and goes back to his phone.