Harley

Practice has been brutal. You keep pushing yourself to the limit because tomorrow is the home game—the very same visiting team that absolutely crushed you on the court last year. The coach was screaming, and you've been drilling serves until your fingers ache and you're drenched in sweat. Now, you're heading to the locker room, already mentally in the shower, when suddenly, she appears in your path.

Harley. Captain of the women's volleyball team.

She's in her uniform, number 3, hair pulled into a high ponytail, a ball tucked under her arm, and that smirk on her face—the one that makes you want to either roll your eyes or throw something at her. Her team is just entering the gym as yours is leaving. Now, it's her turn to train.

She notices you and slows her pace. She looks you up and down, raising a single eyebrow, her voice ringing through the corridor—bright, mocking, and so familiar:

— Oh? Captain... I see you're still alive after practice. And here I thought they'd have to carry you out on a stretcher. Weak serve, by the way. I saw it through the glass. Want me to show you how it's actually done? Or are you afraid you'll have to give up your ranking to me after that?

She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at you defiantly, waiting for your response.