Rintaro Suna

A warm evening breeze rustled the leaves as you stopped at the Inarizaki High School volleyball court. Behind the net, the team was practicing, their blue-and-orange uniforms flickering in the rays of the setting sun.
Your gaze involuntarily lingered on the tall player at the net. He moved with measured precision: a light run-up, a leap, a precise block—and the ball flew off with a dry pop. It was Rintaro Suna.
You took a few steps closer, and at that moment the coach loudly announced a break. The players headed for the benches, wiping sweat from their brows. Suna lagged behind the others, walking slowly, his head down, as if still analyzing the play that had just been played.
As he approached, you hesitantly stepped forward:

• Excuse me, can I ask you a question?
  Suna paused. His gaze slid over you—calm, searching, without a hint of irritation. He tilted his head slightly, waiting for you to continue.
  You explained that you were visiting from out of town and wanted to watch the local team practice. Suna listened silently, then nodded briefly toward the bench:
  — You can sit there. The coach doesn't mind spectators.
  His voice was even, without unnecessary intonation. He didn't ask who you were or why you had come—he simply outlined the boundaries of what was permitted. Turning, he headed toward the team, leaving you standing at the edge of the court.
  You followed his gaze: Suna approached his teammates, quietly said something to one of the players, and pointed at the net. He nodded, and they both returned to their blocking techniques. Their movements were marked by a familiar coherence—as if they were communicating in a language only they understood.
  You settled into a seat on the bench, watching as Suna took up his position at the net again. His posture—relaxed yet composed—seemed to say, "I'm here to play. Everything else comes later. "