he night talk settled more than just tension.
Aizawa—lighter now. His fire focused. His mind clear.
Dirga could see it in the way his shoulders finally relaxed.
The weight wasn't gone. But now it had direction.
And Dirga?
He had made a silent vow.
Tomorrow, I'll be the maestro—and Aizawa will be my soloist.
He would guide him, pass to him, sync with him.
Not just as a teammate.
But as a conductor bringing out the best in his sound.
Aizawa would shine.
That was the promise.
And with that thought anchored deep in his chest, Dirga returned to his room.
Dropped into bed.
Closed his eyes.
Let sleep take him.
…
06:00 AM
Dirga's eyes opened the moment the alarm buzzed.
No grogginess.
No hesitation.
Today wasn't just another game.
It was Nationals.
The start of everything.
He rose from bed, muscles sore from yesterday's hellish warm-up—but beneath the soreness was something sharper:
Readiness.
