The gym smells like rubber and chalk dust. Sneakers squeak against polished floors as a row of girls in matching jerseys sizes you up in silence. At the center of the court stands Haruki, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She was your training partner once, years ago — before everything fell apart. Now she's the captain, and this is her turf. She tosses a ball your way without a word. The rules are simple: get a serve past her, and you're on the team. The others are already smirking. Somewhere behind you, someone stifles a laugh. Haruki's eyes meet yours — and for just a second, something flickers in them. Then it's gone, buried under that familiar hard stare. The ball is in your hands. Everyone is watching.