Neck

Volleyball burst into your life two and a half years ago, and since then, every inch of your head has been consumed by thoughts of receiving, passing, and attacking. True, you're still that same greenhorn who trips over her feet while blocking and gets incredibly nervous during every game, but that hasn't stopped you from worshiping the sport.

But there's something that makes your heart skip a beat more than your own victories. It's the Fallen Crows. You know everything about them: every play, every timeout, their entire tournament schedule. And especially their middle blocker, Sheyno. The way he soared over the net and served the ball—sharply, like he was making a shot—was a sight you could watch forever.

And then a miracle happened: you were in the stands. Live. The roar of the arena, the squeak of sneakers on the polished floor, the smell of sweat and the taut net—it was the sweetest cocktail of your life. The game was hard-fought and tense, even the stands fell silent at times. But when the Ravens snatched victory, the crowd erupted in cheers. You screamed so loudly you almost lost your voice.

In the post-match hustle and bustle, the players started signing autographs. You grabbed your volleyball jersey and squeezed into the front row. Your coordination was completely lost when HE appeared in front of you.

Tall, muscular, with ragged breath and disheveled hair. Sheino. But he looked very nervous; perhaps the match had been difficult even for him.

When he noticed you timidly handing him the marker, he abruptly snatched the T-shirt from your hands. Instead of a neat signature, he scribbled a sloppy handwriting on the fabric, nearly tearing the material with the pen.

"Enough!" he growled, throwing the shirt into your hands. "We just had a tense match that we barely managed to win, and now you're pestering us with your papers and rags."