The air already held the metallic tang of coming evening, a faint chill seeping into Nishinoya’s worn tracksuit. He served, a clean, powerful arc that slammed against the brick wall of the park’s old public restrooms. The ball rebounded with a dull thud, and he was already moving, dropping into a low crouch, arms extended. His receive was flawless, a practiced bump that sent the ball high into the fading light. He tracked its descent, leaping, twisting his body mid-air to mimic a jump set, then landing lightly on the cracked asphalt. His movements were fluid, graceful, a dance honed by countless hours of relentless practice. Every muscle knew its place, every reflex was sharp as a blade. He moved across the deserted court, a solitary figure under the darkening sky, performing the intricate ballet of a libero. The ball was his only partner, an extension of his will. For these brief moments, the court was his sanctuary, a place where he could pretend. But the pretense was thin, easily shattered. A particularly hard spike against the wall, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet park, was all it took. The sound ripped through the fragile peace, tearing open the memory that was always just beneath the surface. His hands, calloused and strong, tightened around the worn leather of the ball, the texture suddenly alien, dangerous. The gymnasium lights had been blinding, hot on his skin. The roar of the crowd, a living, breathing entity, had vibrated through the floorboards, through his bones. The scent of sweat and polished wood, the tension in the air – it had all been intoxicating. He remembered the set, a perfect arc from Kageyama, precise as a surgeon's cut. The opponent's ace had launched himself, a blur of muscle and determination, aiming for the back corner. Nishinoya had seen it, felt it in his gut, a premonition that was almost a physical blow. He had moved without thinking, a dive that scraped his knee on the gleaming floor, a desperate, impossible save. His arm had shot out, hand flat against the speeding ball, deflecting it, keeping it in play. He had rolled, scrambling back to his feet, adrenaline singing in his veins, ready for the next move. Then, the scream. It wasn’t the roar of the crowd, nor the sharp slap of the ball, nor the excited shouts of his teammates. It was a sound that cut through everything, a high-pitched, agonizing shriek that silenced the entire gymnasium in an instant. It had come from Tanaka, his closest friend, who had been charging to cover, whose shoulder he had brushed in the frantic scramble for the ball. Tanaka had crumpled, clutching his arm, his face contorted in a mask of pure agony. His eyes, usually bright with fierce loyalty and boundless energy, were wide with a terror Nishinoya had never seen. The referee’s whistle had blown, sharp and final. The medical staff had rushed onto the court, their faces grim. Nishinoya had stood frozen, watching, a cold dread seeping into his very marrow. The coach’s voice, usually a booming thunder, had been a quiet, stunned whisper. The air already held the metallic tang of coming evening, a faint chill seeping into Nishinoya’s worn tracksuit. He served, a clean, powerful arc that slammed against the brick wall of the park’s old public restrooms. The ball rebounded with a dull thud, and he was already moving, dropping into a low crouch, arms extended. His receive was flawless, a practiced bump that sent the ball high into the fading light. He tracked its descent, leaping, twisting his body mid-air to mimic a jump set, then landing lightly on the cracked asphalt. His movements were fluid, graceful, a dance honed by countless hours of relentless practice. Every muscle knew its place, every reflex was sharp as a blade. He moved across the deserted court, a solitary figure under the darkening sky, performing the intricate ballet of a libero. The ball was his only partner, an extension of his will. For these brief moments, the court was his sanctuary, a place where he could pretend. But the pretense was thin, easily shattered. A particularly hard spike against the wall, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet park, was all it took. The sound ripped through the fragile peace, tearing open the memory that was always just beneath the surface. His hands, calloused and strong, tightened around the worn leather of the ball, the texture suddenly alien, dangerous. The gymnasium lights had been blinding, hot on his skin. The roar of the crowd, a living, breathing entity, had vibrated through the floorboards, through his bones. The scent of sweat and polished wood, the tension in the air – it had all been intoxicating. He remembered the set, a perfect arc from Kageyama, precise as a surgeon's cut. The opponent's ace had launched himself, a blur of muscle and determination, aiming for the back corner. Nishinoya had seen it, felt it in his gut, a premonition that was almost a physical blow. He had moved without thinking, a dive that scraped his knee on the gleaming floor, a desperate, impossible save. His arm had shot out, hand flat against the speeding ball, deflecting it, keeping it in play. He had rolled, scrambling back to his feet, adrenaline singing in his veins, ready for the next move. Then, the scream. It wasn’t the roar of the crowd, nor the sharp slap of the ball, nor the excited shouts of his teammates. It was a sound that cut through everything, a high-pitched, agonizing shriek that silenced the entire gymnasium in an instant. It had come from Tanaka, his closest friend, who had been charging to cover, whose shoulder he had brushed in the frantic scramble for the ball. Tanaka had crumpled, clutching his arm, his face contorted in a mask of pure agony. His eyes, usually bright with fierce loyalty and boundless energy, were wide with a terror Nishinoya had never seen. The referee’s whistle had blown, sharp and final. The medical staff had rushed onto the court, their faces grim. Nishinoya had stood frozen, watching, a cold dread seeping into his very marrow. The coach’s voice, usually a booming thunder, had been a quiet, stunned whisper.Nishinoya stood, the ball still gripped tight, the coach's stunned whisper echoing in his ears. The chill of the evening air had deepened, but he felt none of it. His focus remained on the phantom image of Tanaka’s crumpled form, the sound of that terrible shriek. The park, the wall, his own endless practice—all faded into the background, replaced by the ghost of a gymnasium.A soft thud broke through his reverie. It was a lighter sound than his own spikes, a bouncier, more innocent impact. A blur of orange and white rolled across the cracked asphalt, coming to rest a few feet from his worn training shoes. It was a child’s volleyball, smaller, brighter, with a synthetic sheen.He lifted his gaze slowly. A small boy, no older than seven, stood at the edge of the court, clutching a worn teddy bear. His eyes, wide and hesitant, were fixed on the ball, then on Nishinoya. The boy’s lip trembled slightly, a silent plea hanging in the space between them.Nishinoya’s body reacted before his mind had fully processed the request. His right foot, clad in a scuffed trainer, moved with an unconscious grace, a lifetime of reflex guiding it. It tapped the orange-and-white ball gently, a soft, controlled nudge. The ball rolled easily, arcing back towards the small child.The boy’s face brightened instantly, a shy smile replacing the tremble. He scampered forward, scooping up his ball with both hands, clutching it like a precious treasure. He offered a quick, mumbled "Thank you!" before retreating back to his parent, who had been watching from a nearby bench.But Nishinoya’s own reaction was far from bright. The moment his foot had touched the ball, a jolt of pure revulsion had shot through him. He jerked his foot back as if burned, a visible flinch that made his entire body tense. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead despite the cooling air. His breath hitched in his throat, sharp and shallow.He stared at his foot, then at the spot where the child’s ball had rested. It was just a ball, an inanimate object, touched by a small, innocent hand. Yet, a wave of sickening dread washed over him, a feeling of contamination. The metallic tang of the evening air suddenly felt like the sterile scent of disinfectant, the memory of the hospital ward, the hushed voices, the surgical masks.He could still feel the phantom pressure of Tanaka’s shoulder brushing his, the fraction of a second when their bodies had made contact. It had been an accident, a movement too fast, too desperate, in the heat of the game. But the outcome... the outcome had been devastating.His hands, still gripping his own volleyball, felt suddenly clumsy, oversized. He loosened his grip, letting the ball fall to the ground with a soft thump. He wanted to be rid of it, rid of the constant reminder. The child’s simple request, the innocent contact, had ripped open the wound all over again. He could not escape it. Not on the court, not even in the quiet solitude of the park. The fear of causing harm, of being the conduit for pain, had become an invisible, suffocating shroud. He was a danger. He felt it deep in his bones. The park was no longer a sanctuary. It was just another place where his past could ambush him. His chest tightened, a knot of shame and self-loathing hardening in his gut. He had to leave.---Nishinoya walked home through the labyrinthine streets of his neighbourhood. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, painting the western sky in bruised purples and dull oranges, a palette that matched his mood. Streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows that danced ahead of him, then behind him, then stretched sideways, mimicking his own uncertain steps. The air grew colder, biting at his exposed skin, but he barely registered it. His mind was too busy replaying the endless loop of the gymnasium, the sickening crack, the silence, the coach's whisper.The streets were quiet, a familiar hush that usually brought him a measure of peace. Tonight, it only amplified the sense of his own isolation. Each house he passed had its own warm glow spilling from windows, the faint sounds of family life – a distant laugh, the clatter of dishes, the murmur of conversation. He was outside of it, a lone figure moving through the edges of other people's happiness. He had chosen this path, this solitude, after the incident. A self-imposed exile, to keep others safe from him.He pictured Tanaka in his mind, fierce and loyal, his usual boisterous energy dimmed. The doctors had said it would heal, slowly. But the guilt in Nishinoya felt like an open fracture that would never mend. He had refused to visit, unable to face the man he had injured, unable to face the disappointment, the silent accusation he imagined in Tanaka's eyes. It was easier to disappear, to become a ghost in his own life.His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his tracksuit, knuckles white. The worn fabric offered little comfort against the growing unease. He rounded a familiar corner, past the old bakery with its lingering scent of stale bread and sugar, and onto his own street. The houses here were older, built closer together, their brick faces dark and uninviting under the weak glow of the sodium lamps.Then it hit him. Not a memory, not a thought, but a physical sensation, cold and sharp. A prickle started at the base of his neck, crawling up his scalp, raising the fine hairs on his arms. It was an inexplicable sense of dread, sudden and absolute, like a cold wave crashing over him. His steps faltered.He stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, straining his ears against the silence. There was nothing. No unusual sounds, no footsteps besides his own, no rustling in the hedges. Just the distant hum of the city, a sound so constant it was almost invisible. Yet, the feeling persisted, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on him.He felt utterly exposed, vulnerable. Every shadow seemed to deepen, to twist into something menacing. The familiar shape of a neighbour's overgrown rose bush morphed into a hunched figure. The dark gap between two houses became a watchful eye. It was absurd. He knew this street. He had walked it hundreds of times, day and night, since he was a child. He was being ridiculous.His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat. He spun around, eyes darting, scanning the empty street behind him. Nothing. No one. He was completely alone. But the sensation of being watched intensified, a burning intensity on his back, between his shoulder blades. It felt like a physical touch, an invisible hand pressing down, chilling him to the bone.His breath caught in his throat. He had never felt anything like this before. This wasn't the dull ache of guilt, or the sharp stab of regret. This was raw, primal fear, the kind that screamed danger without a visible source. His instincts, usually so sharp and precise on the court, were now screaming at him to run, to hide, to get away from… from what? He didn't know. He couldn't name it. But the dread tightened its icy grip, promising something terrible. It was an unreasoning terror, a premonition of something utterly unnatural, something that had nothing to do with volleyball, nothing to do with Tanaka, nothing to do with anything he understood.He started walking again, faster now, a hurried jog turning into a desperate sprint, his eyes wide and unfocused, searching for an enemy he couldn't see, a threat he couldn't comprehend, as the inexplicable dread solidified into an icy certainty.

Chapter 1: A Silent Scream Echoes