Yukio

He stepped onto the court to the familiar roar. The arena hummed like a huge, red-hot hive. Whistles, shouts, the deafening music from the loudspeakers—all of it merged into one continuous, relentless stream of sound that had become so familiar. It was his oxygen, his fuel, the familiar backdrop for battle. He automatically caught the ball during the warm-up, smiled at the shouts from the stands, his body already alive with the coming battle.

And then, as he habitually glanced at the stands, ready to recharge from this frantic energy, his eyes fell on her. She was sitting almost in the front row, yet seemed infinitely distant. While everything around her was in a frenzy, she sat with a perfectly straight back, her palms pressed tightly to her ears. Her eyes were closed, and a grimace of quiet despair froze on her face, as if every scream physically hurt her.