Willow Vance stood behind the white line. She pushed the bridge of her sport glasses up her nose. Sweat made the plastic frames felt slippery against her skin.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Her heart rattled against her ribs. The rhythm felt familiar; it was the bird-like flutter of anxiety she lived with every day. Yet, a heavier, deeper beat pulsed beneath it. Her lungs burned from the strong pace of the set. And beneath that physical strain lay something new. A strange electric current prickled in her fingertips. Excitement.

  She spun the ball. The yellow and blue panels spinned like an alienatic planet.

  She looked across the net. Kaia Blakitu stood near the baseline, cheating toward the back. The opposing setter looked too comfortable.

  Willow tossed the ball upward, a plan formed in her mind.

  She stepped forward and swung. Her palm slapped the leather flat. No spin. The ball floated across the net, dead in the air. It hunted the setter directly. It dove toward Kaia's chest, demanding her to play defense instead of offense.

  The Salesbia libero reacted. A crimson streak threw itself across the floorboards. She dove in front of Kaia, extending her arms into a flat platform.

  Thwump.

  The ball collided with her wrists inches off the floor. The libero grunted with the effort. She didn't control it perfectly, but she saved it. The ball popped straight up. It climbed high toward the complex array of lights in the ceiling - one skyscraper pass. It hung there, buying time.

  Kaia Blakitu scrambled. She sprinted from the back line toward the center of the court, her eyes locked on the falling speck.

  Her brain captured the court in snapshots.

  Snapshot one: The right side. Misty Cole was already blurring into motion. The speedster ran a fast slide route, looping behind where the set would come from. The Divers were slow to adjust. The blue jerseys clustered in the middle. The entire right flank of the court lay exposed. Only a single back-row defender occupied that acre of varnish. A strategically wide-open door.

  Snapshot two: The left side.

  Aria Fillar began her approach. The glide was smooth, quiet, effortless.

  But a duelist, en garde, was waiting for the match to start.

  Himeko Nakamura stood at the right pin; she stood motionless. She ignored everything else happening on the court at the moment. Her dark eyes locked onto Aria with a singular, raptorial focus. She tracked every step the Ace took. She had pre-committed. She knew exactly where the pride of Salesbia wanted to go, and the play would follow the script.

  The ball dropped into Kaia's hands.

  Tactical logic screamed for the slide. Misty had the open net. Misty had the easy point.

  Kaia felt the leather settle against her fingertips. She looked at the wall waiting for Aria. She looked at the open door for Misty.

  She pushed left.

  Momentum was now their greatest driving force. Aria had been unstoppable for ten minutes. You do not starve a god when they are feasting.

  Kaia extended her arms. She fired the ball high and wide to the pin, challenging the wall directly.

  Aria Fillar ignited her engines. The approach was like flame painting the air with unmatched confidence, her sneakers devouring the court in commanding strides. She felt the intoxicating surge of adrenaline that came with being the chosen one.

  The set was high, a perfect offering to her altitude. In her mind, the outcome was already written in stone: she would ascend, she would meet the blocker, and she would simply punch through the resistance as she had done for the last ten points. The obstruction in front of her was merely paper waiting to be torn.

  She planted her feet and exploded off the hardwood. Her body uncoiled, launching her toward the rafters.

  Himeko Nakamura matched the ascent. She rose from the floorboards like a mountain emerging from the earth. The mechanics of her jump had shifted entirely from the previous rallies. Gone was the fluid, absorbing softness she used to catch the ball. She locked her shoulder blades together with a violent snap, fusing her upper body into a rigid structure. Her arms extended fully, elbows locking into place, turning her limbs into jail bars. At the very top, she angled her palms downward, stiff and unyielding, transforming her hands into plates of cold steel.

  They hung together in the air, suspended in the white glare of the arena lights.

  Aria drew her arm back, her hips rotating to generate the sledgehammer force. She looked forward to aim her destruction.

  She found herself staring into Thanatos - The God of Death.

  Himeko's eyes were wide open, looking through the white mesh directly into Aria's pupils. The human warmth had vanished from the Osea captain's face. The abyss opened, a hollow, terrifying stillness - the gaze of a reaper standing patiently at the door, extending a hand to collect a debt.

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  For a microscopic fraction of a second, a chill raced down Aria's spine. The invincibility faltered. The Queen blinked.

  She swung anyway.

  BAM.

  Aria drove her hand into the ball with everything she possessed. The leather compressed, rocketing forward to shatter the gate of hell.

  The ball collided with Himeko's palms.

  Physics demanded the fingers to bend back. But Himeko held the line. A guttural grunt escaped her throat as the shockwave rattled through her skeleton, vibrating down her arms and into her spine. She squeezed every muscle fiber in her forearms, refusing to give a single millimeter of space. The steel plates held firm.

  The ball ricocheted off Himeko's rigid palms. It shot straight up into the air, soaring high above the net in a controlled loop. It drifted lazily, beautifully, toward the back of the Divers' court.

  "One touch!" Himeko roared as she fell back to earth.

  The ball hung in the rafters, spinning lazily against the harsh glare of the stadium lights.

  Gravity began its work. The deflection from Himeko's palms started its long descent toward the backcourt.

  The reserve defender watched it fall. Her eyes scanning the trajectory. She moved before the ball reached its apex. She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, shuffling two steps to her right with quiet calm.

  She arrived at the drop zone. She bent her knees deep, sinking her hips toward the floorboards to create a stable base. Her arms extended, elbows locking together to form a flat platform.

  The ball arrived.

  Thump.

  A soft, controlled contact. The leather kissed her forearms and instantly obeyed. She absorbed the residual spin, guiding the ball upward in a gentle arc toward the attack line. A perfect transition pass.

  Willow Vance sprinted.

  Her sneakers chirped against the varnish as she dashed under the floating ball. She settled her feet, raising her hands above her forehead, framing the incoming pass.

  Across the net, the Salesbia front line stood in disarray.

  The Middle Blocker stared awkwardly, her head whipping around to track the ball she thought was dead. Misty Cole skidded to a halt near the right antenna, caught in the transition of offense to defense; her decoy run had left her miles away from her defensive blocking assignment. Even Aria Fillar stood flat-footed near the net, watching the play continue with genuine surprise on her face. The Queen had swung her scythe, and the harvest had failed.

  Willow inhaled sharply. The noise of the crowd, the squeak of shoes, the callings of the players, all of it filtered out. The world turned silent and gray.

  Sniper Mode engaged.

  A digital grid overlay snapped onto her vision. Vectors and angles illuminated in her mind's eye. She scanned her own side of the court.

  Everyone were running.

  Jules Moreno pressed forward on the left wing. Sarah Lemear charged down the right. They, she realized, had exploded off the line the moment Aria swung, fueled by absolute faith that their captain would keep the play alive, just like Willow herself.

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  Jules, in particular, was traveling at terminal velocity. She planted her foot at the three-meter line, her approach aggressive and hungry.

  Willow's eyes shifted back to the net. She saw Misty scrambling desperately to get back to the right side. She saw the opposing middle blocker tangled in her own footwork.

  The window was open.

  Willow's fingers brushed the leather. She fired.

  Her wrists snapped with the recoil of a high-caliber rifle. The ball shot out of her hands on a flat, horizontal line, erasing the distance between her and the left antenna.

  A laser beam set.

  Jules Moreno met the ball at the exact moment she reached neutral gravity.

  She hung in the air, arm cocked back, eyes wide. The view from the top was magnificent.

  The Salesbia block was a fractured mess. The Middle Blocker leaped late, drifting sideways in a panic. Misty Cole threw her hands up in desperation, but she was too far inside.

  Between the Middle Blocker's left shoulder and Misty's right hand, a gap existed. A seam of empty air perhaps twelve inches wide.

  Behind that gap, the Salesbia libero was screened. She crouched low, blinded by the wall of her own teammates, unable to see the attacker's arm.

  Jules saw the thread. She swung fast and clean. Her hand contacted the top of the ball, guiding it like arrow leaving a crossbow. She drove the attack straight through the corridor of empty space.

  The arrow hissed past the blocker's ear. It cleared the tangle of arms without grazing a single thread of crimson jersey.

  The libero reacted too late. She saw the ball emerge from the wall of bodies only when it was already past her knees.

  SMACK.

  The ball struck the floorboards clean and hard. It bit into the varnish, spinning away out of bound.

  For a second, the gym held its breath.

  TWEEEEEEEEET!

  The referee's arm shot out, pointing decisively to the Salesbia side.

  "Point, Port Osea Divers! 14-13."

  The Salesbia libero bumped the serve, sending the ball on a high, looping trajectory toward the setter's pocket.

  Kaia Blakitu watched it fall. A strange sensation washed over her. The geometry of the court, the positioning of the blockers, the rhythm of the receiving line... It all looked identical to the play twenty seconds ago. Déjà vu.

  Her instincts whispered for variety. A quick set to the middle could shatter the Divers' rhythm. A dump into the pot could catch them sleeping.

  But the Salesbia's motto sat heavy in her mind, overriding the creative impulse. Feed everything to the Queen.

  Kaia set her feet. She pushed her hands outward, denying her own intuition.

  The ball flew high and wide to the left pin again.

  Aria Fillar saw the set. Her eyes narrowed. The previous rally had embarrassed her. This must be her redemption play.

  She approached with angry strides. She launched herself off the floorboards, seeking the ceiling.

  Himeko Nakamura rose to meet her.

  In the previous exchange, Himeko had turned her body into a fortress of rigid bone and locked joints. She had met force with extreme resistance.

  This time, she changed the composition of her defense.

  As Aria reached the peak of her jump and unleashed a swing fueled by frustration, Himeko exhaled. She loosened her shoulders. She unlocked her elbows. Her wrists went limp.

  Aria's hand connected with the ball, driving it forward with crushing velocity.

  The ball slammed into Himeko's palms.

  Instead of a violent ricochet, there was a dull thumping. Himeko's hands gave way, absorbing the firing power like a heavy pillow catching a stone. The ball died gradually against her skin. It lost all forward momentum, trickling sadly down the front of her jersey, falling straight toward her feet on the Divers' side of the net.

  Gravity claimed the dead ball fast. It plummeted toward the varnish.

  “Mine!”

  Jules hurled herself forward. She abandoned all proper form, diving chest-first onto the hard court. Her arm extended along the floor, knuckles scraping against the wood.

  Pop.

  Her fist slid under the falling ball millimetres before impact. It was an ugly, desperate contact, popping the ball straight up into the air with erratic spin. It wobbled, hanging low toward back side.

  Alive.

  The transition happened in the blink of an eye.

  Aria Fillar landed from her jump. She turned her head slowly, expecting to see the ball on the floor. Her mind was still processing the sensation of hitting a sponge instead of a wall.

  By the time her eyes focused, the blue jerseys were already swarming past her.

  Willow Vance scrambled to the ball. The pass was too messy for the laser set. She adjusted her feet, squaring her shoulders to the net to sell a reset.

  At the last possible second, she arched her back. Her hands contacted the spinning leather and pushed backward.

  A back-set.

  Sarah Lemear was waiting on the right wing.

  The veteran hitter didn't have the raw power of Aria or the precision of Jules, yet she's the most experienced player on the court. She saw the Salesbia outside blocker rushing late to close the distance, drifting sideways in a panic.

  Sarah jumped. The set was perfect for her tempo.

  She saw the blocker's hand reaching out. She saw the pinky finger extended, separated slightly from the rest of the hand.

  She snapped her wrist, driving the ball with calculated prejudice toward the blocker’s outside edge. She swung for the finger.

  Thwack.

  The ball clipped the blocker's pinky. The contact spun the ball violently sideways. It careened off the hand, flying horizontally away from the court, tumbling deep into the third row of spectator seats, luckily lost most of its power.

  The whistle blew.

  "Point, Port Osea Divers! 15-13."

  [FAST READING START]

  The red digits on the Jumbotron flickered, counting upward.

  16-13.

  Aria Fillar rose again on the left. She abandoned the line shot that Himeko had sealed off all night. She ripped her arm across her body, aiming for the deep diagonal, seeking the floorboards.

  Himeko watched the shoulder rotate. She softened her wrists instantly, turning her palms into shock absorbers.

  Thwump.

  The ball died on contact. It lost its lethal sting, tumbling harmlessly over Himeko's fingers.

  The reserve defender was waiting at the bottom of the funnel. She stepped forward and bumped the slow-moving ball high. Willow Vance set it. Jules Moreno wiped it off the block.

  Point Osea. 17-13.

  The next rally. Aria looked at Himeko's hands. She refused to hit into them. She reached for the ceiling, extending her frame to its absolute limit, trying to paint the back line with a rainbow shot over the block.

  She put too much air under it.

  The ball sailed. It drifted past the defensive line, past the diving libero, and dropped six inches beyond the white paint of the baseline.

  "Out!" the line judge flagged.

  The crowd groaned in frustration.

  18-13.

  Aria Fillar stood at the net, hands on her hips. The serene mask of the Salesbia Queen had fractured. Her brow furrowed, sweat dripping into her eyes. Her lips moved silently, repeating a single, desperate mantra.

  Harder. Just hit harder.

  Kaia set her again.

  Aria swung. Himeko touched it. The ball stayed alive.

  Divers transitioned. Sarah attacked. Salesbia dug it.

  Kaia set Aria again.

  Aria swung. Himeko touched it again.

  Divers attacked. Misty Cole dove face-first to save it.

  Third try. Kaia pushed the set practically into the net. Aria grunted, a raw sound of frustration, and hammered the ball through the seam.

  Boom.

  It hit the floor. 18-14.

  [FAST READING END]

  Salesbia celebrated like they had won the match. Chest bumps, screams, heavy breathing. Burned a tank of gas just to win back a point.

  On the other side, the Divers simply turned around. They walked back to their positions.