Friday, 1:13 PM.: Kumon district, Salesbia, Voland.

  Outside the tinted windows of the Port Osea Divers' team bus, the landscape stretched by a vast, featureless expanse of dry hayfields. The only decroration to the flat horizon was the wind turbines. Hundreds of them, planted in the dust, their massive blades slicing through the air in a slow, lazy rhythm. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

  Inside the bus, the atmosphere was a mix of aftenoon tiredness and pre-game tension. The air conditioning recycling air that smelled faintly of bus' plastic, coffee, and the unique perfumes of the players.

  Himeko Nakamura sat near the middle of the bus, her long legs cramped slightly in the limited space. She rested her chin on her hand, watching the turbines blur past.

  They were hours away from the ocean now. This was Salesbia and heading to their center city they were.

  She glanced to her left

  Julia "Jules" Moreno, the usually exuberant engine of the team, had succumbed to the monotony of the road. Her head was propped against the vibrating window pane, her mouth hanging slightly open. Every time the bus hit a minor imperfection in the asphalt, Jules's cheek jiggled against the glass, but she remained comatose, snoring softly.

  Two rows back, a rapid-fire click-click-click-click cut through the peaceful silece.

  Lisa Denire was slumped low in her seat, her knees propped up against the seatback in front of her. A pair of oversized noise-canceling headphones encased her ears. Her eyes were glazed over, locked onto the screen of her handheld console, her thumbs moving quick.

  Across the aisle, Sarah Lemear sat with the stillness of a statue. The veteran outside hitter had her arms crossed over her chest, earbuds in, staring at the horizon with half-lidded eyes. She was waiting for the work to begin.

  And then, there was the seat directly in front of Himeko. It was vibrating.

  Willow Vance was bent over a tablet propped on her knees, her posture hunched and tense. Surrounding her were three different notebooks, color-coded and marked with sticky notes.

  "R-rotation four... Aria's t-tendency to swing line on bad sets... M-misty's sneak attack probability increases s-significantly after a timeout..."

  Willow was muttering under her breath. She tapped the screen of her tablet aggressively, rewinding a clip of a Salesbia match for the hundredth time. She looked like a student cramming for a final exam that would determine the fate of her future.

  Himeko watched the back of the setter's head. She could see the smoke rising from Willow's ears.

  Himeko looked back to the empty field. The whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the turbines outside began to blur out, pulling Himeko's focus away from the desolate landscape. The dry, dusty air of Salesbia was a stark contrast to the humid, spice-laden fog that had filled the Huzebip store five days ago.

  Against her will, her mind drifted back to that wobbly plastic table.

  The image that played on the back of her eyelids was one could say, ridiculous: the Men's World MVP, looking down in horror at a splash of chili oil on a shirt that probably cost more than her monthly rent.

  She remembered the sound of his laughter: loud, carefree, and slightly wheezy.

  But more dangerous than the laughter was the silence that had followed. She remembered the way he had leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table, ignoring the ruin of his wardrobe to look her dead in the eye.

  "Your team has a lot of potential, Himeko. You just need to tap into it."

  Himeko shifted in her seat, the leather creaking softly.

  "Stranger," she had called him. She had drawn a line in the sand, demanding distance, demanding professionalism. She had built a wall to keep him out.

  And yet, here she was, hours before the season opener, and the person occupying the most real estate in her head wasn't Aria Fillar or Misty Cole. It was the idiot in the trench coat that bothered her for days, who liked spicy food despite his stomach's protests.

  Her hand moved, brushing against the side pocket of her track pants. Through the fabric, she could feel the outline of her phone.

  His number was saved in there. Strictly for "data transfer," she had insisted, strictly business. But the digital weight of that contact felt heavy. It felt like a tether she swore she didn't want, yet one she found herself checking to ensure it was still there.

  Stop it, Himeko commanded herself.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head to dislodge the memory; the warmth of the noodle shop evaporated.

  Kevin Marvant was hundreds of miles away in the capital. He was likely doing photoshoots, drinking expensive protein shakes, or driving that ridiculous car he talked about. He was part of the background noise now.

  Focus.

  She opened her eyes, clarity returning to her gaze. She was the Captain of the Port Osea Divers. They were entering enemy territory; she couldn't afford to be distracted by a ghost.

  Himeko sat up straighter, rolling her shoulders to release the tension. Her gaze fell back onto the seat in front of her.

  Willow was still vibrating. The setter was muttering faster now, her finger stabbing the tablet screen.

  "I-ff Aria hits a sharp cross... Lisa digs... but if M-misty runs the decoy... the seam o-opens at 2.5 meters..." Willow's voice was rising in pitch, approaching a frequency only dogs could hear.

  Himeko sighed. The romantic reverie was officially dead. Duty called.

  Himeko leaned forward, reaching over the top of the seat. She placed a hand gently but firmly on Willow's shoulder.

  "Willow."

  The setter jumped, nearly dropping her stylus. She whipped her head around, her eyes wide and bloodshot behind her glasses.

  " Huh-uh-waaa I-I can't find the pattern, Himeko!" Willow whispered frantically, pointing a trembling finger at the tablet. "M-Misty's approach angle on the slide attack... in W-week 3 she stepped at 45 degrees, but in t-the playoffs, she shifted to 40 degrees! That five-degree difference changes the dig reception point by six inches! If I-i don't calculate the variance, the transition set will be off-tempo and-"

  "Breathe," Himeko interrupted, her voice a steady anchor in the storm of Willow's anxiety.

  Willow sucked in a sharp breath, holding it until her face turned pink.

  "You have studied enough," Himeko said softly. "You know their habits better than they know themselves. You do not need to predict the future, Willow. You just need to see the present."

  Himeko gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We have practiced the adjustments. If Misty changes her angle, we shift. If Aria jumps higher, we delay. Trust your eyes. Trust us to be where you need us."

  Willow exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping about two inches. The frantic energy in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a momentary clarity.

  "R-Right," Willow nodded, adjusting her glasses. "Right! Trust the eyes. S-see the present. We're prepared. I'm prepared. Okay. I-i'm good."

  She closed the cover of her tablet.

  Himeko smiled, leaning back into her seat. "Good."

  "But wait," Willow whispered, her eyes widening again as she stared at the seat fabric. "I-If Aria switched to those lighter sneakers she wore in the commercial... her vertical c-could increase by another 1.5 centimeters. T-that changes the apex of the block window! I need to check the shoe specs!"

  Willow scrambled to reopen her tablet, her fingers flying across the screen in a renewed panic. Himeko let out a long sigh, deciding that perhaps some anxieties were simply part of the setter's process.

  Just then, the hum of the bus engine deepened as it shifted gears, laboring up a long, steep incline. The vibration rattled through the floorboards, shaking Jules's cheek against the window.

  As the bus crested the hill, the world outside transformed.

  The endless, dusty monotone of the hayfields was dusted out by a sudden, blinding brilliance.

  Salesbia was a metropolis of approximately 900,000 residents, a stark, gleaming metropolis to corporate futurism and aesthetic control. Salesbia was aggressively horizontal. It was a city of sweeping curves and low-profile architecture, designed to let the relentless sun reflect off every surface.

  The buildings were composed almost entirely of white composite panels and self-cleaning glass that shimmered proudly. Every roof was tiled with solar panels drinking in the light.

  "A city without shadows" - The streets were wide, lined with identical trees that never seemed to drop leaves. There was no rust, no graffiti, and no litter. The air smelled of ozone-filtered ventilation. An absolutely beautiful, expensive, and utterly clean environment.

  "Whoa," Jules mumbled, waking up and wiping a line of drool from her chin as she peered out the window. "So... white. Hurts my eyes everytime I see it."

  "Sunglasses on," Sarah Lemear said without opening her own eyes, already knowing the drill.

  The bus began its descent into the valley, heading toward the Salesbia Superdome - a massive, egg-shaped structure that laid at the city center like an opera house.

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  Himeko stared at the gleaming white city. It felt unwelcoming in its perfection. It was a place where stains were not allowed, and mistakes were scrubbed away before they could set.

  The tires hit the city limits, Himeko peered through the tinted glass at the sidewalks.

  She saw a woman in her 20s walking a groomed poodle, wearing a geometric trench coat with sharp, exaggerated shoulders that probably cost more than the average monthly rent in Osea. A group of teenagers loitered near a solar-powered fountain, draped in avant-garde streetwear: layers of high quality fabric, metallic accessories, and pristine white sneakers that had clearly never touched mud.

  Everyone was young. Everyone was polished. It was a parade of beautiful people living in a beautiful bubble, highlighting a wealth gap so stark to the city she called home.

  "Look at that," Sarah Lemear murmured, pulling one earbud out. She gestured with her chin toward the skyline. "She's everywhere."

  Himeko followed her gaze upward.

  Salesbia drew itself in the images of one woman.

  A massive digital billboard wrapped around the corner of a glass banking tower. It flickered, resolving into a high-definition video loop. It was a perfume ad.

  A colossal face stared down at the traffic, striking, heavy-lidded eyes framed by long lashes, exuding a boredom that felt divine judgment. Aria "The Gift" Fillar, holding a crystal bottle against her cheekbone. The text faded in with elegant font: ESSENCE. BY ARIA.

  A block later, she was there again.

  A fifty-story vinyl banner draped down the side of the tallest skyscraper in the district. In this one, she was an athlete. She was captured in mid-air, her body contorted in a display of grace, her arm drawn back like a whip. She wore the red and black kit of Salesbia United, her face screamed a celebration of victory.

  The caption was a single word, written in bold letters that spanned three floors: GIFTED.

  Even at street level, she was inescapable. As the bus stopped at a red light, Himeko looked down at a transit shelter. A holographic display projected a 3D loop of Aria taking a sip of an energy drink, winking at the commuters, and then resetting.

  "She really likes her own face, doesn't she?" Jules whispered, looking equal parts impressed and disgusted. "I think I'd get sick of seeing myself that much."

  "That is the point," Himeko replied quietly. "Everyone places such high expectations on her, I wonder how she deals with failures."

  The bus hydraulics hissed a long sigh as the vehicle knelt before the curb.

  They had arrived at the Salesbia Center.

  A giant 'opera house' designed by a aerospace engineer. The exterior was a curve of iridescent glass that glowed with a soft, ambient violet light. The retractable glass roof was currently closed, reflecting the cloudless Salesbian sky with blinding intensity.

  Himeko grabbed her duffel bag and stepped off the bus. Her sneakers squeaked loudly against the polished granite of the drop-off zone.

  She looked up. The structure loomed over them, silent and imposing. It made the Port Osea Divers' home stadium: a retrofitted warehouse with corrugated metal walls and drafty ventilation felt like recyclable garbage.

  Behind her, the rest of the team filed out. They huddled together, pulling the zippers of their blue tracksuits up to their chins.

  "Welcome to Salesbia, Port Osea Divers."

  A woman materialized at the entrance of the staff tunnel. She was dressed in a sharp white skirt-suit that fit perfectly with the city's theme. A discreet headset was clipped to one ear.

  "I am coordinator Lin," she said, her voice smooth and modulated. "We trust your journey from the... coast... was bearable?"

  The pause before the word 'coast' was microscopic, but Himeko heard it. A polite reminder that they had traveled from the edge of the map to the 'center of the world'.

  "The drive was fine," Coach Elena replied, stepping forward and adjusting her blazer, trying to match the coordinator's professionalism. "We are ready to check in."

  "Excellent. Please, follow me. We are on a tight schedule, as Miss Fillar has a media obligation in the main atrium shortly, and we must keep the corridors clear."

  Lin turned on a heel and glided through the automatic glass doors.

  They moved deeper into the Superdome.

  The Salesbia Center smelled of vanilla and rose. The hallways were pristine white, illuminated by lighting strips that cast no shadows. The floor was seamless white marble.

  They passed a nutrition station stocked with organic fruits and electrolyte drinks that Himeko knew cost five times the price of the ones in Osea. They passed a recovery room with cryotherapy chambers visible through a glass wall.

  "Here we are," Lin announced, stopping before a set of double doors made of frosted glass. She tapped her tablet, and the lock disengaged.

  "Your access codes have been sent to your coach's device. Match start is at 7:00 PM sharp. Warm-ups can begin in ninety minutes. Any assistance needed please ring the desk phone, connect directly to our staff for help, Good luck!"

  With a curt nod, Lin walked away, tapping on her headset as she went.

  Elena pushed the door open.

  The air rushing out was cool and crisp. She stepped inside, and the team crowded in behind her.

  "Ahhhhh," Jules breathed.

  An airport lounge it was. The floor was plush, carpeted in a deep, luxurious charcoal. Instead of rows of metal cages and hard wooden benches, the room was lined with individual pods. Each station featured a curved, backlit mirror, a cushioned leather armchair, a free makeup station full of high-end brands, and a digital touchscreen embedded in the wall.

  "N-no way," Willow whispered, her anxiety momentarily replaced by tech-lust. She drifted toward a pod. "I-is that... is that a c-customized humidity control dial for each locker?"

  "There are USB-C ports everywhere," Lisa muttered, instantly spotting the outlets. "And ultraspeed Wi-Fi." She finally looked impressed.

  "Towels are heated," A female staff observing the room talked in uninterested monotone, pointing to a rack. "Sparkling and still water are available in the cooler. Please refrain from eating inside the pods. The leather is imported."

  "This is ridiculous," Sarah Lemear spoke with awe, tossing her bag onto the carpet. "It's a volleyball game, not a spa day."

  Himeko walked to the center of the room. She looked at the backlit mirrors, the touchscreens, the excessive opulence. It was impressive, yes. But it was calculated to make the visiting team feel small, to make them feel like peasants who were lucky to be allowed inside the palace. It was designed to make them soft.

  Himeko walked over to her designated pod. She tossed her bag onto the leather chair but didn't sit down. Instead, she stood before the backlit mirror, staring at her own reflection. The harsh, flattering light washed out the shadows under her eyes, making her face look fake.

  It was the same light that had blinded them last year.

  The scoreboard reading 2-2 in sets. The fifth set, nearly tied at 13-14. The air in the Superdome had been suffocating.

  Himeko closed her eyes, and she was back there.

  She could smell the vanilla air freshener masking the sweat. She could hear the deafening chant of "Aria! Aria!" raining down from the stands.

  The final rally. Kaia had pushed the ball high to the left pin. A lazy set that telegraphed the intent to the entire world: Here comes the Queen.

  Himeko had read it. She had moved perfectly. She and Sarah had formed a solid double block, sealing the line, their hands pressing over the net at their maximum reach. It was a textbook defense. It should have been enough.

  It hadn't been matter.

  Himeko remembered looking up. She remembered the nauseating sensation of watching Aria continue to rise. The "Gift" just kept going up, defying gravity with an effortless expression, until her waist was level with the net tape.

  Aria swung downward, a steep, punishing angle that buried the ball into the three-meter line before Himeko's feet had even touched the ground.

  2-3. Match over.

  Himeko remembered the way Aria had landed. She had simply smoothed her hair, checked her nails, and offered a polite wave to the camera, as if Port Osea Divers had been nothing to her.

  Himeko opened her eyes. The backlit mirror stared back.

  That was a year ago. That was Himeko Nakamura, the standard-issue middle blocker.

  She reached up, undoing her hair tie. She gathered her dark hair back, smoothing it down, and snapped the elastic band tighter than usual.

  She looked at her hands, the same hands that had touched the sky with Kevin Marvant. She wasn't the same player who had watched helplessly as Aria floated overhead. She had spent two months in a cage with a predator far scarier than just a bored model. She had learned that even gods bleed if you cut them, and even the highest jumpers have to come down eventually.

  "Gifted, huh?" Himeko whispered to the empty reflection.