The morning sunlight slipped lazily through the open windows of Karasuno's first-year classroom, landing in warm stripes across Akira's desk. He sat there, chin in hand, his silver hair catching the light like strands of molten frost. He wasn't even pretending to be alert — instead, he was scanning the room in that unhurried, calculating way that had earned him an odd kind of respect from classmates in just a week.
From the corner of his eye, he could see a couple of girls by the window whispering. The word "handsome" drifted across the air like pollen. He didn't react — he never did — but internally, he filed it away under Status: Social leverage, low effort required.
Aya, sitting beside him with her perfectly neat notebook already open, nudged his arm."You're staring again," she said, her voice low.
Akira didn't move his head, still tracking a group of boys laughing near the back. "I'm observing," he corrected. "Important difference. You… take notes on what the teacher says. I take notes on how people behave."
She rolled her eyes. "Creepy much?"
"It's strategy," he murmured. "See that guy? Tanabe. Second time he's pulled his chair over to join someone else's desk before class. Means he's a connector — people follow him. The girl with the braid two rows up? Always has a snack hidden. Potential ally for when I skip breakfast."
Aya muttered something about him being "ridiculous" but didn't bother arguing further. She knew by now Akira's brain didn't run on the same tracks as most people's.
Before the conversation could drift further, Hinata burst through the door like a wind-up toy that had just been released, practically bouncing in place."Akira! Did you hear? Did you hear?!"
Akira's gaze flicked over lazily. "Unless you're about to say there's free food, I probably didn't."
"It's Nekoma!" Hinata declared as if announcing the arrival of an invading army. "We're gonna have a practice match with them!"
Aya blinked. "Nekoma? That's another school's team, right?"
Akira tilted his head toward her. "Historic rivals. Whole 'Battle at the Trash Heap' thing. Except it's friendlier now."
Hinata slammed his palms on Akira's desk, vibrating with energy. "And this is perfect! You—me—Kageyama—we'll crush them together!"
Kageyama, who had been silently approaching from the side, stopped dead at that last part. "Don't say it like that," he muttered. "It's not like—"
"—we will," Akira interrupted, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "but if we do, you're buying me lunch."
Kageyama stared at him, completely lost. "Why would I—?!"
"Because," Akira said, stretching his legs out under the desk, "motivation is key. I spike better when there's free food on the line."
From the back of the room, Tsukishima's voice drifted in, dripping with sarcasm. "Wow. Revolutionary sports psychology right there."
Akira didn't miss a beat. "Thanks, Giraffe Boy."
Tsukishima froze. "…Excuse me?"
"You're tall, your neck moves like one when you turn to look at people. It's an observational nickname," Akira said simply, as if it were science.
Yamaguchi snorted, quickly covering his mouth. "Oh no, he's starting on nicknames now…"
The rest of homeroom rolled on with small bursts of chatter, the teacher occasionally glancing toward the group with a mix of exasperation and resignation. Aya kept jotting down notes, and Akira leaned back in his chair, letting the rhythm of the class wash over him.
During lunch break, the first-years' table in the cafeteria became its own chaotic ecosystem. Hinata was narrating imaginary plays for the Nekoma match, Kageyama kept correcting him, Tsukishima occasionally interjected to poke holes in both their logic, and Akira… simply orchestrated the pace of the conversation without ever raising his voice.
"You know what your problem is, Kageyama?" Akira said at one point, leaning on his elbow.
Kageyama bristled immediately. "What?"
"You think volleyball starts with the setter. It doesn't. It starts with the spiker's intent. The setter just… shapes it. Think about it in those terms, and Hinata's crazy runs won't seem so unpredictable."
Hinata beamed like someone had just given him a gold star. "See, Kageyama! Akira gets it!"
Kageyama frowned, but there was a flicker in his eyes that said the thought was already digging in.
As the afternoon wound down and they all spilled out into the hallway, Akira caught sight of a familiar figure waiting by the gym doors — Nishioka, Karasuno's graduated libero and current cheerleader-in-chief for the new generation.
"Well, well," Nishioka said, grinning like a fox. "Look at you, silver prince. Heard you're in the lineup for the Nekoma match."
Akira raised a brow. "You keeping tabs on me now?"
"Of course. Gotta make sure my juniors don't embarrass me in front of the alumni," Nishioka shot back. "So here's the deal — play well enough that I don't have to pretend I don't know you."
Hinata immediately gasped, turning to Akira with mock seriousness. "You have to win now. Or Nishioka will disown you!"
Akira chuckled under his breath, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. "Guess I'll have to make it worth watching, then."
The air between them carried that low, buzzing anticipation — the kind that hinted the real show was yet to come. And as they stepped out into the fading sunlight, the first-year banter still trailing behind them, the weight of the coming match settled in, warm and electric