Kenma stood at the baseline, ball in hand, his fingers tapping against the leather like he was feeling out the tempo of a song. The whistle pierced the air. His serve wasn't explosive — it didn't need to be. It skimmed just low enough over the net to force Nishinoya into a crouch, arms snapping forward.
Thud!The ball popped perfectly into Kageyama's hands. Akira was already in motion — not sprinting, not obvious — just gliding into the seam between Kuroo and Yaku's coverage. Kageyama's toss was feather-light, dropping into Akira's path like it had always been meant to be there.
For a split second, the world slowed. Akira's silver hair caught the overhead lights, his leap unhurried yet impossibly high, his blue eyes steady on the ball. The angle wasn't brute force — it was precision, artistry. His hand met the ball with a sound like a whip crack.
BOOM!The ball shot through the gap between Yaku's desperate dive and Kuroo's stretched block fingers, thudding into the floorboards just inside the line.
The crowd gasped, then roared. Even some Nekoma fans clapped."That," Oikawa muttered with a grin, "is the angel."
Next rally — Kuroo adjusted the block, reading Kageyama's shoulders. Hinata, seeing the wall form, signaled midair. Kageyama switched in the blink of an eye, sending the set high and long to Tanaka. Tanaka gritted his teeth, blasting past Fukunaga's block with a scream.
1–1.
Nekoma answered quickly. Kenma's eyes flicked across Karasuno's formation, spotting Tsukishima leaning just slightly too far inward. His set to Inouka was perfectly timed; the hit bounced off the edge of Tsukishima's fingers and into the backcourt before Nishinoya could dig.
The ball went back and forth in a long rally — Hinata diving to keep one alive, Kuroo roof-blocking Tanaka, Tsukishima poking it back over on an awkward touch — before Akira called for it again. The toss came fast.
He didn't hammer it this time. He just brushed it, the ball rolling over the net with surgical accuracy, kissing the floor between Yaku and Kai before either could sprawl in time.
Even Kenma's head lifted a fraction, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Figures."
The set continued like a duel of wills — Kenma calmly dismantling Karasuno's formation piece by piece, Akira answering with angles no one saw coming, Hinata's quicks forcing Nekoma to adapt faster and faster. Every point was its own little war, the gym's noise swelling and crashing like waves.
At 8–8, Akira served.
The stance changed — straighter, head tilted slightly, gaze locked beyond the net like he was looking through Nekoma, not at them. His toss arced higher than before.
FWOOOSH!The serve dropped like lightning, clipping the tape and plummeting into the seam between Kai and Yaku. The reception popped up just enough for Kenma to chase, but the rhythm was broken. Fukunaga tried to salvage the hit, but it sailed long.
Oikawa leaned back, arms folded. "There's the first crack."
The next rally, Hinata got stuffed by Kuroo's perfect read, the ball ricocheting down in front of his shoes. The Nekoma bench roared. But Akira didn't flinch. He just offered Hinata a lazy half-smile and said, "That's fine. Let him enjoy that one."
When Karasuno took the next serve, Kageyama looked at Akira — not for a signal, but just a tiny check. Akira's eyes were calm, almost warm.
The toss came in. He rose. His swing was neither too fast nor too heavy — just inevitable. The ball drilled the floor so hard it sent up a faint echo.
The crowd surged to its feet. The scoreboard ticked upward. Nekoma was holding, but each time Akira touched the ball, the atmosphere shifted. It was less about points now and more about the slow, building pressure — like a storm cloud with silver edges, waiting to break.