Kenma had been waiting for this exact moment.
The past few rotations, he'd been letting Hinata's quicks happen — not every time, but enough that Karasuno stayed convinced they could rely on them to pull ahead. But now, at 8–8, Kenma shifted his set calls, whispered a short adjustment to Kuroo and Kai. It was subtle — hands a bit higher, blockers leaning in toward the seam — but it was enough.
Kageyama tossed. Hinata launched.
This time, Kuroo and Kai were there, their block sealing the lane shut. The ball ricocheted back into Karasuno's court before Hinata's feet had even hit the ground. The crowd roared — a clean shutdown of Karasuno's signature play.
On the next rally, Kenma slowed everything down again, baiting Karasuno into rushing. A long rally unfolded — Nishinoya with a crazy diving save, Tanaka trying to force one through the corner — but Nekoma's defense just wouldn't break. Yaku popped up another dig, Kenma gave a deceptively lazy back set to Fukunaga, and the ball clipped the tape before dropping untouched. Nekoma took the lead.
The gym vibrated with the chant:"Nekoma! Nekoma!"
Karasuno tried the quick again, desperate to steal the momentum back, but Kenma's read was perfect. He didn't even look at the ball until the last second, eyes on Kageyama's shoulders the whole time, and shifted Kuroo into position a beat early. Another stuff block. Nekoma's bench exploded.
11–8, Nekoma.
And then Akira's head turned. Slowly.
His eyes were no longer calm ocean blue — there was a glint in them now, like steel catching light. His jaw tightened, shoulders rolling back in a way that felt… heavier. Even from the stands, Oikawa leaned forward, murmuring under his breath, "Oh no… he's awake now."
Hinata caught it too. "Uh… Kageyama?" he whispered. "Why does he look like that?"
Kageyama didn't answer. He was already tossing the next ball to Akira.
The serve tore through the air like it had somewhere to be, hitting Yaku's platform so hard the dig shot straight up into the rafters before Kenma could chase it down. The whistle blew. Ace.
No celebration. Just Akira walking back, head tilted slightly, a shadow to his grin. The crowd had gone from cheers to an uneasy buzz.
Next serve — not the same line, but a cruel, dipping float that seemed to defy physics before dying right in front of Kai. Another ace. Nekoma's three-point cushion evaporated in seconds.
Kenma called for tighter receives, but it didn't matter. Akira's third serve hit the seam between Yaku and Inouka, handcuffing them both. The ball popped weakly into the air — free ball.
Karasuno's formation snapped into motion. Nishinoya to Kageyama. Kageyama to Akira.
This wasn't the angel anymore. There was no elegance. Just raw, merciless power. The spike detonated against Kuroo's block, shoving it straight down onto Nekoma's floor. The sound was sharp enough to make the first few rows flinch.
Oikawa, grinning despite himself, muttered, "That's my little brother."
The scoreboard read 11–11, but the gym knew the momentum had shifted completely. Nekoma's earlier read on Hinata's quicks didn't matter — not when the demon on Karasuno's side was taking the ball into his own hands.