Chapter Seven

Scrimmage day arrived, and the locker room rattled with thunder as the volleyball team quickly divested their school uniforms. Tendou removed his shirt and tie in one go, dancing out of his purple slacks in the process. He hung his blazer neatly in his locker, but the rest was thrown into a heap atop his gym bag. Standing there in nothing but his shorts, he examined his hand.

Nurse Hino may have the worst bedside manner, but her treatments proved most effective. He was relieved to see that his hand had recovered after two days of ice and compression. He removed the gauze and flexed his fingers.

"Better?" Ushijima asked, unbuttoning his dress shirt.

"Much better." Tendou broke into a lopsided grin. "120% better to be exact!"

To demonstrate, he leaped in front of Semi who was attempting to tie his shoes. Tendou clawed the air, stalking him like a zombie. The pinch server was immediately irate. "It's too late in the day for this." He shoved him aside, annoyed. "Why don't you pick on Shirabu for a change?"

"Because it's Thursday and I have him penciled in on Mondays," said Tendou. "I keep a regular schedule with all my victims. I'm not a complete menace."

"That's exactly what you are!"

Their captain handed out their jerseys, light blue vests with white decals. They instinctively grabbed the same number as their official jersey. It was a superstition they never discussed aloud, but it was understood that wearing the number of a fellow player invited trouble. Tendou had started the superstition last year with his story of a player who broke his arm exactly one week after the original owner of the jersey broke his. The omen stuck.

"It's a shame Jin got sick at the last minute," said Tendou with a hint of remorse, throwing on his vest. "I know he wanted to get a shot at float serving today."

"Then he shouldn't have eaten those damn oysters," said Yamagata as he slipped on his knee guards. "We shouldn't feel bad for him. He'll be out of practice for days."

"Lucky bastard," agreed Kawanishi.

"I don't think food poisoning," Reon said, appalled, "would be considered lucky."

"Either he suffers here in the gym or in bed at the dorms." Kawanishi hunched.

"Fair point."

They finished getting dressed, but the air was now ripe with their anticipation. In minutes, they would be playing against the team of a renowned tech university. Coach Washijo had warned them to expect a superior level of gameplay and that Shiratorizawa was to rise to the occasion. The first years were nervous, but Tendou and Ushijima looked positively predatory.

"A collegiate team." Tendou sighed, steepling his taped fingers.

Beside him, Ushijima radiated pure testosterone. It rolled off of him in waves of purple miasma.

"Tanji's found us worthy opponents at last. We might actually struggle a bit, Wakatoshi."

"Ah."

They shared an avid look much to the growing concern of the others.

The gym was ready. They spent the previous afternoon mopping the floors and straightening the sports equipment after practice. As they entered the space, they could see the net was drawn taut across the court. Their volley carts had been wheeled in by their lieutenant coach who was busy setting up the scoreboard now. Waters were prepped, towels folded, post-game snacks of orange slices, and onigiri waiting in the cooler in the corner of the gym. But Coach Washijo was nowhere to be seen.

Probably collecting our adversaries this very minute, Tendou guessed.

They did a quick warm-up, falling into their usual routine of stretches and high jumps. Once they were sufficiently loose, their captain called for a rally at center court.

"Right. It goes without saying – Shiratorizawa is strength. All our training for the past five weeks has been leading up to this moment. Use your new abilities to support the ace. Our tactic is like the edge of a blade, sharp and direct. We will force our way through their defenses and attack!"

They threw their hands together with a single, sharp battle cry.

"Shirabu, make sure to pass to Ushijima," said Reon, clamping a hand on the setter's shoulder.

"Right!"

"I'll be watching you from the sidelines. You better not disappoint me." Semi motioned from his eyes to the first year ominously. Though he respected Washijo's decision to appoint Shirabu as the regular setter, it didn't mean he was going to cease competing with his rival.

Shirabu eyed his upperclassman with an acerbic smile. "Watch me closely then."

Tendou intervened before it could escalate any further.

"Easy, easy. Save that for the game," he said, patting their shoulders soothingly. But he too had his own idea of how this game was going to unfurl. He would support Ushijima, of course, but he was also going to demonstrate his leverage as the hidden court trickster. He was eager to test his new confidence, and the more emphasis that was placed on Ushijima, the more startling impact Tendou had against the opposing team.

There was a loud clap of thunder followed by movement at the entrance. The players shifted their focus, expecting their rivals to bolt through the doors. To their confusion, a group of students hustled into the gym just as the sky began to rain. Tendou, who had been posturing near the net with his game face on, was surprised to see members of the art club. Several anxious students trailed behind a third-year girl who was speaking to Coach Washijo.

"You're sure this isn't an imposition?" The art president, Noriko Fukuhara, asked the coach.

"On any other day, perhaps, but you're in luck. Having an audience will enhance our game this afternoon. My players need to get used to spectatorship, especially the first years," he said. "They tend to be crowd-shy which can affect their performance."

"Oh. Well, in that case, we're happy to help!" Fukuhara smiled, revealing her braces.

"If you'll excuse me, I must greet Coach Yasuda when he arrives. The boys can help you get situated," Washijo informed the art club before departing the gym. Fukuhara was left searching the players for instruction.

"Where's the best place for us to sit during the game?" She asked their captain.

Tendou glanced at the crop of students holding sketchpads. Hanamura was at the back of the group, standing with Asano and Izakaya. They were eyeing the gym with interest. It probably looked different from their entrance ceremony.

"Tendou, why don't you show them to the bleachers?" His captain suggested, singling him out. At the mention of his name, Hanamura met his gaze.

There was a strange tightness in his body. His spine, which was usually loose, seized up all at once.

"Right! Follow me," he said, motioning to the art club. He led them into a stairwell that wound to the upper mezzanine. The sounds of footsteps trailed him; the loud rush of murmurs buzzing in his ears.

He held the door aloft, addressing Hanamura as she emerged from the stairs.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the door.

Hanamura appeared a little damp, but eager.

"Figure drawing." She held up her sketchpad. "We were going to draw the horses today, but the weather took a turn, so – I suggested we come here instead."

She quirked her brows mischievously.

"You're going to draw us?" Tendou repeated, curious. Something like that had never happened in his first year. It was rare for clubs to cross-pollinate outside of school events, and even then, the volleyball club was more likely to rub elbows with the cheer squad and marching band than anyone else. Before meeting Hanamura, he never paid much attention to the art club. They were a small, quiet, and dignified group that kept mostly to themselves. The complete opposite of his bunch.

Asano and Izakaya, who had settled on the bleachers now, flashed him smug looks as if he were in for a real treat.

"What about you?" He returned his gaze to Hanamura, his expression teasing. "Will you stoop to using a pencil? Rather hard to paint in here, huh?"

She lifted her chin.

"I'll be using this," she pulled out a lump of coal she had wrapped in a paper towel, inky black powder already coating her fingers. It took him a moment to recognize it as the same coal used for a barbeque. Tendou smirked, impressed by her resourcefulness.

"If you can, try to get Number 7's good side. He's not very confident yet. Having an artist sketch him would be the perfect boost in ego," he suggested with a sly glance at Yunohama. He could see his teammates were shooting him wary glances from below, no doubt worried what he might be saying to the art club. He hadn't told them about his recent trip to the studio yet.

"What about you?" She asked.

"Hmm?" He turned. "What about me?"

"Do you get nervous during a game?"

Tendou blinked, uncertain if he heard her correctly. His face was caught between a smile and a frown as he considered her, incredulous.

Him, nervous? Had she really seen him play volleyball? If so, then how could she have come away with any doubt that he felt anything but elation throughout the entire course of a game? She could have asked whether Ushijima quaked at the idea of spiking, whether Yamagata dreaded getting hit in the face with a ball, or whether Coach Washijo abhorred insulting a player in the middle of a televised match and it would have elicited the same exact response.

Pushing away from the door, Tendou rose to his full height. He towered over Hanamura, blocking her view of the gym, of her friends sitting in the bleachers, his arm still perched on the doorframe like a trap. He held her gaze for a moment, his expression now serious, watching as she clutched her sketchpad to her chest. She understood he was no longer Satori Tendou, but Shiratorizawa's legendary menace.

"There's a reason they call me a monster, ya know," he said, his voice light, silken.

Hanamura turned scarlet.

"Watch closely," he told her, tapping his temple, "I'll show you how I break the rules too."

He stepped aside, allowing her to join her clubmates before he disappeared down into the stairwell.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tendou made his way back onto the court, his insides crawling with nerves.

I shouldn't have done that. His mind reeled. Now I'll end up looking like an idiot.

She had baited him. Hanamura with her innocent question, her guiltless green eyes. He had simply wanted to get a rise out of her in retaliation, but seeing the soft rouge spread across her face had given him pause. He flexed his fingers, letting the tension drain from his body as he rejoined his team.

Yamagata tossed a ball at his head.

"Oi, what were you doing up there?" He jutted his chin to their guests. "Delivering an evil monologue?"

"More or less," Tendou said, catching it and twirling it between his hands, "I've always said our games need a disclaimer. Those innocent art geeks are about to witness carnage."

He cut his gaze to the mezzanine. Hanamura had taken a seat by Asano and Izakaya, their heads bent together in deep discussion. She had shimmied out of her jacket and was fixing the sock that had slipped down her calf when she, Asano, and Izakaya all glanced in his direction.

He quickly busied himself with serve practice.

Coach Washijo reappeared again, this time brandishing a large umbrella that protected not only himself but the rival coach as well. Yasuda bent at an odd angle, his tall body conforming to Washijo's limited reach. Behind them sprinted the college team into the gym, having been caught in the downpour from outside. The athletes were grinning, shaken by the thunder echoing through the metal rafters of the building. When they spotted the Shiratorizawa team; however, their glee evaporated into an immediate standoff. There were fifteen players total, all dressed in blue and silver tracksuits. Tendou marveled at their collective height and build, all of them appearing as stout as Ushijima.

So these were the wolves he had heard so much about the past two weeks.

Out of the teams I've arranged for you to play, this one is the most versatile in terms of defense, Coach Washijo had said during their last practice, pacing in front of them with hands clasped behind his back. They recruit athletes who demonstrate a consistent blocking style that can fluctuate depending on the offensive strategy of their rivals. Their captain is rated among the best blockers in collegiate volleyball, which should come as no surprise. He graduated from Date Tech.

Another Iron Wall? Reon asked, thinking of their past experience with the high school.

Coach Washijo stopped, grinning. Worse, they are a walled city with cannons. They defend their side of the court, but attack from deep within. I'd like to see you overtake them by force. Surround them, starve them out, infiltrate their defenses while they're weak. Satori, he said, laying his sharp eyes on the middle blocker, this would be your golden opportunity at subterfuge.

The team shifted their focus on him, grave, but he simply smiled, holding his thumbs up.

You got it, Tanji.

Tendou searched the faces of his opponents now, noting the player with broad shoulders and copper hair pulled into a half-tail. He had wiry stubble on his chin and thick brows, but it was his smile – a single sharp canine digging into his bottom lip – that suited his team's mascot. A shaggy wolf. The alpha in a pack of equally intimidating players.

The captain and his team made their own evaluation, sizing up the boys' volleyball club with mild interest. Their eyes lingered on Ushijima the longest, which pleased Tendou. Little did they know that their greatest mistake was fixating on the wrong player for too long. The first rule of volleyball: for every bright light, there was an equally dark shadow lurking behind the scenes.

Tendou rolled his neck, letting the adrenaline spread throughout his limbs.

This was going to be fun.

. . . . . . .

Hanamura concentrated on the game. The coal sat motionless in her hand, the pages of her sketchpad blank, and yet her eyes followed the movement back and forth across the court, imagining what kinds of marks could capture such fleeting movement. Adrenaline hung in the air like a fine mist, and the pounding of feet across the floorboards shook her with the force of Taiko drums.

She leaned against the rail, her mind drifting to the last time she had witnessed the team in action.

We look forward to seeing Suzume in our program next spring, the principal said as he ushered her back to her father. She will make a wonderful addition to our school.

Her father paused in his pacing the moment they reappeared. Glancing between the two of them, his face gave way to joy.

I'm so proud of you, honey. He later kissed her cheek as they headed back outside. My little Suzu a student at Shiratorizawa! Just wait until your mother hears about this! She'll want to celebrate tonight. Maybe we can pick up some goodies on our way back to the train station. Your teacher will want to hear from you too.

Hanamura remained silent, her head still reeling from the interview.

Sensing her disquiet, he smiled.

Come on, he said, his voice calm, we've got some time before our train. Let's soak in the sights.

She relaxed, grateful for his comforting presence as they explored the grounds. They walked the stone path that looped around campus, passing the stable barn and stopping just short of the gymnasium. Hanamura could hear shoes streaking across hardwood floors and the sound of a whistle.

Her father paused.

Dad?

A grin spread across his face, the kind reserved for mischief.

Just a small peek, he said, steering her toward the gym.

They were in luck. The side doors had been left ajar. All the windows were frosted from the inside, and there was a rush of warm air. Must be toasty inside. She glanced through the narrow gap. From their vantage, they could see a large court with a net stretched across the middle, creating a barrier. Figures stood on either side, dressed in colored jerseys.

Now, this brings me back. Her father whistled low under his breath, drawing her gaze. While you were in the interview, I read in the admissions office that Shiratorizawa is among the top ten schools in Japan for intermural sports. Their volleyball players are amazing!

A nostalgic fervor kindled in her father's eyes, and Hanamura was reminded that he had played a little in his youth. If the stories her mother told were true; however, he had never been a skilled player, preferring to watch from the sidelines instead. It's just as well, her mother always said. Your father's too clumsy for sports, but an absolute whiz in the workshop. He can't catch a ball to save his life, but the man can build anything with his hands!

Was this a glimpse of what her father was like at her age? The idea made her smile.

Together, they huddled at the open seam and observed the players within. She didn't know much about the sport, only that it was a battle against gravity. Her father said it was all about height, strength, and stamina – so long as the ball was in the air, the court was a live battlefield. It would explain why the players were all extremely tall and athletic. They were titans.

Now that's odd. What's he doing? Her father jutted his jaw, curious. Daydreaming?

Who? Hanamura asked, keeping her eyes glued to the game.

The blocker nearest the net, he said. Hanamura stood in the scent of his aftershave, a strong piney smell that reminded her of the lacquer coating his workbench. Her mind conjured rusty gears and tool grease, as she watched the players move like clockwork across the court.

Her eyes alighted on the boy who caught her father's attention, a tall player with spiked red hair. He stood close to the net with his arms raised, perfectly still. He was concentrating, but his tranquility struck her odd as well. It was curious that he was the only one watching the players on the other side of the net. Everyone else had their eyes glued to the ball.

A side hitter leaped into the air and whacked with all his force, intent on sending it across the net at a sharp diagonal, but the middle blocker was already there, smashing it down like a cat grounding a bird. The force of the impact rippled through the gym, jostling the players, and causing Hanamura to gasp in shock. At that moment, she felt she already knew him: flashy and confident, calculating; a bursting firework.

The whistle blared.

Satori Tendou, you jerk! The boy who spiked growled.

You'll need to be more subtle than that, he grinned, his smile rakish. You're an open book.

His teammates circled him, congratulating him with high fives. The scoreboard indicated 15 to 13 of what must have been a series of matches. The players were breathing hard and reaching for their waters now. The one with red hair pulled up the end of his shirt, revealing pale, toned skin as he wiped his brow. It was at that moment that Hanamura's father cleared his throat.

I think we've seen enough, he said, pushing her away from the doors.

But Dad, she argued.

No, no. I don't want to encourage any wild ideas, he said. You get the same look your mother gets when she's curious. I'll have none of that.

Hanamura fell into step behind him, sparing one final glance at the gym.

Who was that boy?

Now as she sat from her perch watching the commotion below, she was quickly beginning to realize how Tendou had earned himself such a mysterious reputation. She thought she had understood him in that single stolen moment observed through the crack of the gym doors, but this Tendou was much more deliberate, more calculating. The difference in persona was stark. He had been so warm and playful in the studio, but here on the court, she was reminded that he was very much an athlete and a valuable member of the team. He stalked the gym, his long limbs moving with caffeinated grace. He kept his eyes trained on his opponents. His body languid, his taped fingers spread out like claws.

A monster, indeed.

"They're getting eaten alive," Izakaya whispered, biting the top of his sketchpad in suspense. "Shiratorizawa doesn't stand a chance! I mean, look at the thighs on that guy!"

He was pointing his pencil to the player with copper hair, the one that looked as if he could uproot trees with his bare hands. He was consistently forcing Ushijima to change his spikes, appearing above the net like a jumping jackalope. The Great Ace was panting hard, determined to work around the opposing team's seemingly impenetrable wall. Hanamura glanced at Coach Washijo and was concerned to see he remained so calm on the bench. His second-in-command was eyeing the scoreboard with evident unease.

"We're already in round two," Asano complained, glancing feverishly between the match and her drawing. She stuck her tongue between her teeth, etching thin lines that formed a familiar mop of hair as she followed her subject with a look of frustration. "Gah! He's moving too fast! I've just gone and messed up his nose."

Hanamura turned her attention back to the game.

Despite all his posturing, Tendou had remained passive for most of the match. He was on and off the court as the players rotated. After the college team won five points in the second round, Coach Washijo called for a timeout. His players congregated in a tight group, drinking heavily from their waters. He did not get up from the bench. Instead, he looked deliberately to Tendou who nodded. The blocker leaned in, murmuring something to his teammates who were all listening intently.

"Something's about to happen," she alerted her friends. "They're planning something."

"A funeral?" Izakaya scoffed, flipping to a fresh sheet of paper.

"No, a trap."

The game resumed, but somehow Team Shiratorizawa seemed refreshed, whereas the college team was beginning to show signs of fatigue. Tendou took his place at the front of the rotation, his body curling into position as the rival captain served. The ball was up in the air, caught by Yamagata who pitched it toward Shirabu. The first-year setter flung his arms up, a ballerina in a pirouette, barely flicking his wrists to send it straight to Ushijima. The ace sent it shooting across the net, but it was received by the other team's libero. The wolves gathered. They were going to attack from center court while their captain manned the net. Their ace leaped into the air, barreling the ball, until–

BAM!

The ball landed with a vicious slap, coming to roll at their feet, lifeless.

And there was Tendou, standing with the zeal of a cat that had just caught its dinner.

"Hullo," he said, his voice ringing out in the gym. "I'm Satori Tendou. Nice to meet you."

He gestured grandly at the court, an arrogant smile spreading across his face.

"I'll be taking things from here."

The college team simmered, provoked by his bold declaration. He had managed to single-handedly read their formation and block the strike. It happened so fast. They had not seen him coming.

They would pay dearly for the oversight.

Tendou was fresh, focused. In seconds, he took control of the game, destroying the other team's attempts at recovering the lead. The powerful aura around Ushijima had allowed Tendou to operate on the ground unseen until it was the perfect moment to strike. He not only blocked, he used the enemy's momentum as his own, turning his perfectly-timed defense into instant spikes. Tendou was always in the right place at the right time, sometimes moving before the ball had even been set.

Guess Monster.

Hanamura hadn't understood in the beginning, but now she saw how he had earned the reputation that made the halls erupt with whispers whenever he drew near. Tendou was talented, he was intuitive, but most of all, he was the wild card that held the flow of the game in the balance.

He glanced up, startling her with eyes bright as fire.

Well, Hanamura. Do I look nervous to you now? He antagonized her.

She schooled her expression, flipping her sketchpad open with an air of defiance.

Two could play that game.

. . . . . . .

The match drew to a satisfying end with Ushijima finishing the third set with an eight-point winning streak.

Tendou was winded, but very much alive. His focus was the needle of a compass pointing north, and his body behaved with the discipline of a well-manned ship. Even as Saito blew the final whistle, he played several more rounds in his head, feeling their momentum ebb and flow like the waves below deck.

He had arrived at that surging moment of triumph – the perfect union of body, mind, and soul. It produced a euphoria in Tendou that made him want to jump into the deepest trenches, scale the highest mountains. Volleyball was the only thing that could produce in him such affirming confidence.

He wasn't a freak. He was a genius.

The wolves may have dismissed him in the beginning, but they were now eyeing him with hungry looks, starved for a rematch. Their captain broke from the pack, taking long strides to his side of the court. Tendou pulled away from the others, wiping the sweat from his brow with his shoulder.

"So you're the guess blocker I've heard so much about," said the captain, scrubbing his wiry chin. He had a voice that was surprisingly boyish, putting Tendou more at ease. "Shiratorizawa isn't known to keep a joker in its deck. At least, not from what I recall."

"I'm the exception," said Tendou, grinning.

"Hmph." The captain glanced at Ushijima with an appraising look. "You two are a bad combination. His precision with your instinct - it hardly seems fair. I hate to think about how many teams you'll be sending home this season."

"As many as we can."

The captain met his gaze, the warmth gone, and replaced with a feral glint.

"I hope we cross paths again, Satori Tendou," he said by way of parting. "Next time, you won't have the element of surprise. And I never make the same mistake twice."

They shook hands, an unspoken agreement passing between them.

"I'll hold you to it," said Tendou.

It was long after the college team departed that the volleyball club finally approached the stage where the art students were gathering. They had scribbled furiously throughout the game, some of them looking just as spent as the athletes themselves. They had rolled up their sleeves, pencils and markers stuck between teeth or behind ears, as they revealed sketchpads full of figures.

President Fukuhara motioned everyone to the stage. "Come, come, have a look! See what you think."

Curious, Tendou steered Shirabu and Kawanishi forward with the others following close behind. The art club laid out their drawings on the lip of the stage, their expressions hopeful, as the team took stock of their work.

There were immediate gasps of delight.

"Taichi, look at your superman pose!" Tendou pointed a finger at the likeness that had captured the blocker in free-form flight. There were dramatic lines etched in red Conté crayon, making his body appear as if it were radiating power.

"Yes! That's the horrible face you make whenever your setup doesn't go through," Semi said to Shirabu with a snarky grin, pointing to a close-up portrait. The first year narrowed his eyes, but there was obvious interest in the tightly rendered lines of his jaw. "Who drew this?" He asked.

Asano raised her hand.

The scowl fell instantly from his face.

Tendou absorbed himself in the drawings. It was wonderful to see the adrenaline of the game captured in so many different styles. He pointed and laughed at the extreme poses the art club was able to capture in mere seconds. The sketches of Ushijima were all – comically – dense, powerful, and massive. There was one, in particular, that was etched by the hands of Michelangelo himself.

"Ushiwaka," Tendou crooned, "look at how massive your body looks! There's muscle upon muscle!"

Ushijima joined him, still emitting intense waves of heat. Together, they admired his likeness captured in graphite. The drawing was half-finished, the rendering concentrated to the curl of his torso and the arch of his wrist, but it was breathtaking.

"I'm glad you like it," said a familiar voice.

Tendou recognized the girl as one of his creative writing classmates – the one with elegant, pale features. Somehow it came as no surprise that she was just as talented at drawing as she was at writing.

"You drew this, Tsubomi?"

The second-year flushed, looking rather pleased with herself.

A little way further down, Izakaya was proudly displaying a portrait of Reon that looked more like a potato with eyebrows than anything else. The wing spiker commended him for the effort, his eyes creasing into a strained smile. Yamagata patted his shoulder consolingly.

Tendou searched for the only art member who had yet to appear. There was a small pulse in his throat, an inkling of fear that he had frightened her with his bravado from earlier. But there was a part of him that wanted to impress on her that this was his studio, his territory. If she commanded paint, then he'd like to think he commanded the court. It was a matter of introduction – of rivalry. But also…an interest in seeing how she responded to the side of himself that wasn't so charming.

He didn't have long to wait. Hanamura stepped out onto the stage, holding several sheets of paper by the corner. Her hand was completely black with charcoal, and he could see dark smudges across her forehead where she swiped the hair from her face. She was somewhat glassy, her attention faraway as she laid down her work.

Jagged.

Loud.

Dangerous.

They hit him like a sucker punch.

Tendou saw himself memorialized in several of her sketches. The lines were powerful strokes across white snow, looping and coiling with raw intensity. The concept was gestural. Hanamura knew how to fashion a single, unending line to capture the silhouette of a leg, torso, and arm suspended in the air. Weight and gravity, but also flight and freedom. Of all her drawings, the ones of him contrasted most starkly against the stage.

He saw the coil of his spine just before he guessed a block.

Tendou met her gaze, for once, speechless.

How was it possible? How could someone know how he felt at that exact moment? It was as if she was there beside him, making the same calculated risk, pooling all of her weight into her heels as she prepared to spring – only to change her mind at the last second. She had tasted his certain victory and spit it back out onto the page like a Rorschach test for all to see.

Hanamura returned his look, the haze gone from her eyes now and replaced with something quite close to checkmate. Her lips were parted, the corner lifting slightly into a leer. And as she held the coal to her face, she blew on it like the barrel of a smoking gun.

Tendou was thirsty. He needed a drink of water after ingesting so much salt in that single look.

"Hmm, not bad," said Coach Washijo, breaking him from his staring match.

The coach rubbed his chin as he too assessed the drawings. There were calculations running through his head, and idea beginning to form. He picked up Tashima's expertly rendered sketch and one of Hanamura's wild, erratic scrawls. He held them side-by-side. A massive Great Ace next to a spindly Guess Monster.

"Let's have a chat," he said, addressing Hanamura and Tashima. "My office, Thursday morning."

The two art students glanced at each other warily.

"And bring your sketchbooks," he said, walking away with their drawings still in hand. "We have some business to discuss."

It was at that moment that Hanamura came to life, her face shining with an unexpected happiness. It erased the shadows from her face and the tightness in her jaw. Everything about her was suddenly cast in gold, and as her mouth spread into a smile of unparalleled brilliance, Tendou grew nervous.

A/N: Phew! Longest chapter yet, and a showdown to boot. Are you winded? Time for some post-game snacks.

"Sweet Dreams ft. Sarah Dugas" - Pomplamoose

"Oh My My" - Summer Kennedy

"Black Sheep" - Gin Wigmore

Thank you for reading.

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