Set point.
The scoreboard blazed above the gym like a sentence: 24 to 23. Third set. Kitagawa had the advantage.
Yuta Tobi wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm and looked across the net.
Six players. Six expressionless faces. The Kitagawa team didn't celebrate, shout, or look at one another. They simply repositioned themselves, like the cogs of a clock returning to place after every tick. Perfect. Synchronized. A machine.
They don't look human.
Yuta felt the thought before he put it into words. He'd watched Kitagawa play on video three times before the final. He knew they were good. He knew they were organized. But seeing them up close was different. There was no hesitation in their movements. No player looked at another for confirmation. Each one knew exactly where to be, when to jump, how to turn his body. As if they'd rehearsed every breath.
Is this what a perfect team looks like?
The referee's whistle cut through the air. Kitagawa's serve.
The ball came fast and low, aimed at the left corner. Shikaru's libero dove and popped it up—crooked and too high, but still in the air. Takame ran under it, adjusted his position, and set it.
To Yuta.
The ball rose. Yuta was already running. His legs burned, his sneakers squeaked against the floor, and blood pounded in his ears. He saw the net drawing closer. He saw Kitagawa's block form—two players, arms raised, eyes cold.
And he saw the opening.
It was there. A space between the middle blocker and the outside blocker. Narrow, risky, but open. If he spiked through it—a sharp cross-court shot, a firm wrist, a fast ball—it would get through. He knew it would. The angle was in his head like a line drawn through the air.
I can do this.
His feet left the floor.
In the air, everything slowed down. The gym disappeared. The noise disappeared. There was only the ball, the opening, and Yuta's hands.
I can hit it.
But the opening was narrow. If he missed, the ball would hit the block. If he missed, the point belonged to Kitagawa. If he missed, it was over.
What if I miss?
The doubt lasted half a second. Half a second was enough.
Yuta changed his arm. Opened his hand. Instead of the diagonal spike, he sent the ball deep into the backcourt—a safe attack, predictable, the play the coach had ordered. The right play. The good boy's play.
Kitagawa's middle blocker read the movement before the ball even left Yuta's hand. A clean block. The ball slammed into his arms and dropped to Shikaru's side of the court like a stone.
The whistle blew.
24 to 23. Kitagawa. Provincial final.
The gym exploded on the other side of the net. Shikaru's side fell silent.
Yuta landed on his feet. His legs were shaking. He stared at the floor—the exact spot where the ball had hit. A round mark in the waxed floor that was already fading.
I saw the opening. I knew it would get through. And I didn't spike it.
The thought lodged in his throat like a bone.
The Shikaru locker room smelled of old sweat and defeat.
Yuta sat on the bench with a towel over his head. Around him, the team moved in silence—removing kneepads, putting away sneakers, avoiding one another's eyes. The kind of silence that came before someone exploded.
The coach was first.
"You played without a shred of spirit." He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the floor as if the team didn't even deserve eye contact. "Three sets, and you couldn't put together a three-point run. Three. It's pathetic."
No one answered. No one ever did. Shikaru's coach was the kind of man who confused yelling with coaching. Yuta had stopped listening to his speeches during his first year.
But Takame hadn't.
"That last point." The setter's voice cut through the locker room. He was still standing in uniform, his eyes fixed on Yuta. "I set it for you. A clean set. And you sent a dead ball deep."
Yuta didn't raise his head.
"Every time." Takame took a step toward him. "Every time the game gets tight, you go soft. You had the opening and sent it deep. Deep, Tobi. What kind of outside hitter sends it deep on set point?"
The kind who's afraid, Yuta thought. But he didn't say it.
"I set for you the entire game, and this is what you give me." Takame pointed at the door, as if the court were still there. "We lost the final by one point. One. And that point had your name on it."
Yuta clutched the towel tighter over his head. His fingers had gone white.
No one defended him. No teammate said, "It wasn't just him." Not one sympathetic look. The entire locker room silently agreed, and Yuta knew it—because it had always been this way. When Shikaru lost, the blame fell on him. It didn't matter that he'd been the best player on the court. It didn't matter that he'd received more balls, defended more, run more. The last mistake was his, and the last mistake was the only one anyone remembered.
"Enough, Takame." The coach pushed away from the wall. Not to defend Yuta—to end the subject. "Pack up your equipment. The bus leaves in twenty minutes."
Takame snorted and turned away.
Yuta stayed seated. The towel hid his face, but it couldn't hide his hands, which were shaking. Not with anger. With something worse.
He's right.
The trip back was long.
Yuta didn't take the bus with the team. He said he was walking. No one insisted that he stay.
The spring night was warm, the kind of night that should have been pleasant. Yuta felt nothing. He walked with his backpack on his shoulders and his eyes on the asphalt, his sneakers striking a rhythm that didn't match any song.
When did I start playing volleyball?
The question appeared on its own, like the thoughts we avoid all day and only let out when there's no one else around.
Seven years old. I was seven.
The image came back clear. A small backyard, uneven grass, a makeshift net tied between two clothesline poles. A young Yuta clutching a volleyball that was too big for his hands, refusing to give up.
"Hoka-nee! Play with me! Just one more time!"
"Yuta, I've already played fifteen times..."
"One more!"
And Hoka played. She always played. Complaining, laughing, missing every bump, but playing. And when Hoka got tired, Yuta went after Shizuka.
"Shizuka-nee, will you play with me?"
"No."
"Please?"
"...Five minutes."
And five minutes became thirty.
Yuta smiled in the darkness. A small, tired smile that died quickly.
Ten years. Ten years of playing volleyball. Ten years of training, watching games, studying positions, memorizing formations. Ten years of loving this sport with everything he had.
And what did he have to show for it?
No titles. No recognition. No call-up. A 5'8" outside hitter who didn't have the strength to punch through a block, didn't have the technique to vary his attacks, and didn't possess the natural gift that separated the good from the great. A player his own team used as a punching bag.
I'm mediocre.
The word hurt more than anything Takame had said in the locker room. Because Takame might have been unfair. But the word "mediocre" was simply honest.
Yuta stopped walking.
He was on an empty street beneath a buzzing streetlamp. Across the road was a small park with an abandoned sand court. The net was crooked, fallen to one side, forgotten.
He looked at the net.
What are the odds I'll become a pro?
He did the math in his head. No sponsorship, no recognition in tournaments, no call-up to any youth national team. His second year of high school—one year left. One year to do what he hadn't done in ten.
Practically zero.
The number hung in the air like smoke.
Yuta tightened his grip on his backpack straps. His chest tightened—not with sadness, but with something deeper. Something that had been trapped for a long time and was now pushing against his ribs from the inside, trying to get out.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
And shouted.
"I WANT TO WIN!"
His voice echoed down the empty street and died against the walls of the buildings. Yuta took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, his eyes burning.
"I want to become one of the best volleyball players in the world."
This time he didn't shout. He said it quietly, to himself, as if making a promise he wasn't sure he could keep.
The silence returned. The streetlamp buzzed. The crooked net swayed in the wind.
And a voice answered.
"Pretty words."
Yuta spun around.
A man was sitting on a park bench less than thirty feet away. As if he'd been there the whole time. Tall—even sitting down, it was obvious he was tall. A defined physique beneath a dark jacket. A rugged face, unshaven, long hair tied back carelessly. Black eyes that reflected none of the streetlamp's light.
Yuta hadn't seen him. Hadn't felt his presence. It was as if the man had sprung from the darkness.
"W-who...?"
The man stood. Slowly, without hurry, like someone who never needed to rush for anything. Standing up, he was even bigger than he had seemed. Taller than Shizuka. Taller than any player Yuta had ever faced.
"You're Shikaru's outside hitter." It wasn't a question. "Number seven."
Yuta swallowed hard. "You... watched the game?"
"I did."
Silence. The man slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. Small and rectangular, with a blue logo in the center and the emblem of the Japan Volleyball Association in the corner.
STRIKER BALLET
A phone number underneath. Nothing else.
"My name is Kenzō Wakaba." He held out the card. "Former coach of the Japanese national team."
Yuta's eyes widened. The name wasn't familiar—he didn't follow the professional volleyball scene that closely. But "Japanese national team" was the kind of phrase that made any high school player freeze.
"F-former coach of the...?"
"I'm putting together a project." Kenzō spoke like he was reading off a shopping list. No emotion, no sales pitch, no enthusiasm. "I'm looking for players."
Yuta took the card. His fingers were shaking again, but this time it was different. It wasn't fear. It was something else.
"Striker Ballet," he read aloud. "What is that?"
Kenzō didn't answer the question. He stared at Yuta with those black eyes, assessing him, measuring him, as if deciding whether the boy in front of him was worth the air he breathed.
"You played well today," Kenzō said. "Better than anyone else on that team."
Yuta's heart raced. Someone had seen it. Someone had noticed. Someone who wasn't from Shikaru, who had no reason to lie, who had been the coach of the Japanese national team—he had seen that Yuta had played well.
Joy rose so quickly that Yuta couldn't hold it back. His face broke into a smile—the first since the final whistle. His eyes shone. And before he could think, the words came out:
"I promise I'll help the team win!"
Yuta's smile was huge. Sincere. The good boy's smile after finally being told he was good.
Kenzō didn't smile back.
The silence lasted three seconds. Three seconds in which Yuta's smile slowly died, like a candle losing oxygen.
"This project I'm creating," Kenzō said, his voice like concrete, "is made up entirely of egotists. Players chasing their own ambition. Players who put themselves above the team to stand out."
Yuta blinked. The statement made no sense. Egotists? Above the team? Everything he'd learned in ten years of volleyball said the opposite. The team comes first. The collective comes first. You serve the team, not the other way around.
But Kitagawa was exactly that. A perfect collective. And they looked...
Kenzō turned his back.
"I don't see any fire in you." The words came over his shoulder, without him even looking back. "Give up on your dreams, brat."
And he left. Long strides, no hesitation, no looking back. In ten seconds, his silhouette had vanished around the corner.
Yuta stood still. The card in his hand. His smile dead. The wind stirring the crooked net behind him.
Egotists?
The Tobi house was small, cramped, and noisy—even when there were only three people inside.
Yuta opened the door and was greeted by the smell of curry. Hoka was in the kitchen, stirring a pot far too big for a stove far too small, humming a song that didn't exist.
"Yuta! Welcome home!" Her smile was automatic, sunny, impossible to ignore. The ahoge on top of her head bobbed when she turned. "How was the ga—"
She stopped. Looked at his face.
"...Oh."
Yuta took off his shoes in silence. Dropped his backpack in the hallway. Sat in the kitchen chair as if his legs had given up on functioning.
Hoka said nothing for five seconds—a record for her. Then she went back to stirring the curry, but more slowly.
Shizuka appeared from the living room. Her dark blue hair was loose, her eyes serious, a book in her hand. She looked at Yuta. Looked at Hoka. Understood everything without needing a word.
She sat in the chair across from him.
"You lost," Shizuka said. It wasn't a question.
"The final." Yuta stared at the table. "Three sets to two."
"Hmm."
Hoka set three plates on the table. Curry and rice. She sat beside Yuta and started eating, but kept glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
"Eat," Hoka said, pushing his plate toward him. "Curry cures everything."
Yuta picked up his spoon. He didn't eat.
"Something happened after the game."
Both girls looked at him.
Yuta told them. He told them about the loss, the locker room, Takame. He told them about the walk home, the shout on the empty street. And he told them about Kenzō Wakaba—the man who had appeared out of nowhere, said he was a former national team coach, handed him a card with the name "Striker Ballet," and then said Yuta had no fire in him.
"He told me to give up on my dreams."
Silence.
Hoka set down her spoon. "What a jerk! Who does this guy think he is? He appears out of nowhere, gives you a card, and then tells you to give up? What kind of adult does that?"
Yuta didn't answer.
Shizuka hadn't touched her curry. Her arms were crossed, her eyes fixed on Yuta.
"Yuta."
He raised his eyes.
"You said that when he told you he was looking for players, you answered, 'I promise I'll help the team win.' Is that right?"
"...Yes."
Shizuka tilted her head. Just slightly. Enough for her bangs to fall over one eye.
"Then why did you say, 'I'll help the team win' instead of 'I want to win'?"
The kitchen fell silent.
Hoka stopped chewing. She looked at Shizuka, then at Yuta.
Yuta opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
No words came out.
Because the answer was there, obvious and enormous, filling the entire kitchen—and he'd never seen it.
I've always said "the team." Always. From the beginning. "I want the team to win." "I want to help the team." "I want to be useful to the team."
But in the park, alone, when no one was listening...
I shouted, "I want to win."
Not the team. Me.
Yuta looked at his own hands. The hands that had changed the spike on the last point. The hands that had chosen the safe play, the team's play, the good boy's play—and lost.
The opening was there. I knew it would get through. And I didn't spike it because... because good players make the right play. Good players serve the team. Good players don't take risks.
And good players lose.
Something moved inside Yuta's chest. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't anger. It was something being born—hot, unfamiliar, frightening. Like a flame lighting in a place that had always been dark.
"Shizuka-nee."
"Hm?"
"...Thank you."
Shizuka didn't smile. She simply nodded, picked up her spoon, and started eating her curry.
Hoka looked from one to the other, confused. "Wait, what happened? Did I miss something? Somebody explain!"
No one explained.
Yuta ate his curry. For the first time since the final whistle, he tasted something.
Eleven-thirty at night.
Yuta sat on his bed in the small room he shared with volleyball player posters and a bookcase full of sports magazines. The house was quiet. Hoka had gone to bed. Shizuka was reading in the living room, but her silence was the kind that made no noise.
The card was in Yuta's hand.
STRIKER BALLET
The blue logo. The emblem of the Japan Volleyball Association. The phone number.
Yuta turned the card between his fingers. Once. Twice. Three times.
Egotists. Players who put themselves above the team.
Ten years of volleyball told him that was wrong. Ten years of coaches, teammates, manuals, videos, and speeches told him the team came first. That the individual served the collective. That a player who thought of himself was a player who destroyed the team.
But Kitagawa was a collective. Perfect. Synchronized. And when I looked at them across the net...
They looked like machines. Lifeless. Soulless. Nothing in their eyes.
Is that what I want to be?
Yuta squeezed the card.
No.
I don't want to be a piece. I don't want to serve. I don't want to make the right play if the right play means losing.
I want to win.
Me.
He picked up his phone. Dialed the number. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his teeth.
One ring. Two. Three.
Four.
Five.
He's not going to answer. It's almost midnight. He won't—
"Who is this?"
Kenzō's voice sounded the same in person and over the phone. Concrete. Emotionless.
Yuta swallowed hard. He felt the tremor in his hands, felt doubt pushing against him—and pushed back. Something hot in his chest. Something he didn't have a name for yet, but that belonged to him. Only him.
"Kenzō-san!"
Silence on the other end.
Yuta took a deep breath.
"Let me join Striker Ballet!"
The silence stretched. One second. Two. An eternity compressed into the space between the phone and Yuta's ear.
Yuta didn't hang up. He didn't apologize. He didn't say "please." He didn't say, "I promise I'll help."
He stayed there, holding the phone in both hands, his heart thundering, waiting.
On the other end of the line, Kenzō Wakaba said nothing for another three seconds.
Then, so quietly Yuta almost didn't hear him:
"Hmph."
And the call ended.
Yuta stared at his phone. The screen went dark. The room fell silent.
He didn't know if that was a yes. He didn't know if it was a no. He didn't know what "Striker Ballet" really meant, what he would find, or whether he was ready.
But he knew one thing.
For the first time in ten years, he hadn't made the safe play.
And that—just that—made Yuta Tobi smile in the darkness.