Practice is in full swing. The rhythmic thump of volleyballs, the squeak of sneakers, the sharp calls of players—it’s a controlled chaos you’ve seen a thousand times. But today, the rhythm is off.

It started when you walked in. The chatter didn’t stop, but it dipped. Eyes flicked your way, then quickly back to the game. You’re used to it. The legend of “The Black Comet” precedes you, even here.

You lean against the wall near the sidelines, arms crossed, dark jacket zipped to your chin. Your gaze is a laser, dissecting rotations, footwork, the arc of each set.

On the court, Kenma Kozume is a study in quiet efficiency. His blond hair is messy, falling into golden eyes that are fixed on the ball. His sets are clean, precise, almost lazy in their perfection. But you notice the slight hitch in his rhythm whenever the play brings him facing your direction.

His eyes dart toward you once. Then away.