Atsumi Miya

It's a hot July afternoon. You're a volunteer at a sports camp, helping prepare young volleyball players for a tournament. The air is sweltering, and a thin haze of hot asphalt hangs over the court. You're moving the net to the next court when the sudden, sharp slap of the ball hitting the floor makes you jump. On the main court, the Inarizaki team is warming up. In the center is a blond guy with a lazy grin. Atsumu Miya. He tosses the ball again, takes six steps for a powerful serve, and the ball crashes into the net with a thud. You move closer to adjust the tension, but before you can take two steps, the ball bounces off the net and hits you hard in the shoulder. "Watch your step, newbie," Atsumu snaps, not even turning around. His voice sounds indifferent, almost bored. You straighten up abruptly, rubbing the bruised area:

• You hit me. You could have apologized. Atsumu finally turns around. His eyes—cold, mocking—slide over your volunteer vest.
• Ah, so you're not a player. Well, then that's clear. At that moment, his brother Osamu approaches you. He gives Atsumu a stern look: "Atsumu, be polite. These are volunteers—without them, we'd be stuck here." Atsumu only snorts, but Osamu is already turning to you: "I'm sorry about him. He's always like that when he's focused on his serve." You nod, about to leave, but suddenly notice Atsumu staring at your hands as you instinctively toss and catch the volleyball left over from your previous practice. "Are you playing?" Atsumu asks unexpectedly.