The roar of the crowd was deafening.
Flashes from thousands of phones lit the arena like stars blinking in unison. The scoreboard read 23–23. A grueling third set in the international finals. Tension vibrated through the air—visible in clenched jaws, trembling fingers, the coiled spring of every player on the court.
And in the center of it all stood him.
The Falcons' Ace.
The outside hitter everyone feared.
Even now, hunched slightly, sweat pouring down his brow like a second skin, the MC locked eyes with the opposing setter across the net and knew—the next toss was going left.
He mouthed to the middle blocker beside him, "Line," barely louder than a breath.
A beat later, the play exploded into motion.
The setter flung the ball high to their wing spiker, and the MC was already there, reading it two seconds before it happened. He leapt—not as high as he used to, but still enough—and his fingers grazed the ball as it fired off the attacker's hand.
The block slowed it, and their libero dug it clean. The ball arced perfectly toward the setter.
"Here," the MC rasped, landing hard but balanced.
The toss came fast—too fast for most. But this was his kind of tempo. A sharp, fastball set. A challenge.
He met it mid-air with explosive power, spiking through a triple block like a sword through cloth.
24–23.
The stadium exploded.
Cameras turned. Fans screamed. Coaches punched the air. His teammates shouted his name from every direction.
But he didn't hear any of it.
His chest was pounding—but not the usual kind of rush. It was erratic.
Sharp.
Wrong.
He landed, stumbled.
Someone clapped his back, but the world spun like it was made of oil. The gym lights fractured into halos, and the court beneath his feet swayed like it wanted to pull him under.
He blinked.
And then he was on his knees.
---
A whistle cut through the celebration. Then silence.
A single, dreadful silence.
The MC's hand clenched the front of his jersey. It felt like there was an iron band around his ribs. He tried to draw breath, but only managed a choked gasp. Panic surged, but his body was already giving out.
He heard shouting, voices distant and underwater.
Then—hands. Gripping his arms. Lowering him to the floor. Cool plastic slid over his face as an oxygen mask was placed on. He tried to wave it away. He didn't want to rest. Not yet.
His coach was leaning over him. "Stay with us! Just breathe!"
"I'm fine," he tried to say, but his mouth wouldn't move right.
---
He stared up at the rafters, where the stadium lights blurred into white sunbursts. The ceiling spun like the sky.
This can't be it.
His body trembled. He had trained too hard. Fought too long. Pushed through injury after injury. Survived surgeries, trade rumors, being benched—all of it. Because volleyball was his anchor. His language. His only way to speak when words weren't enough.
Not like this.
Not here.
Not in the middle of the game.
"One more point," he thought desperately.
"Just one more."
But his chest hurt too much. He couldn't raise his arms.
His vision blurred. Shadows crawled into the edges.
---
A medic's voice echoed, "…pulse dropping. We need to move now!"
"Please!" his captain's voice cracked. "Please stay awake—!"
He felt a hand on his head, grounding him.
Then it all dimmed.
---
He couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
Couldn't feel.
Just… silence.
Time stretched into something immeasurable.
He floated—weightless, thoughtless—adrift in blackness. No sound. No pain. No crowd. Just the memory of the court. The squeak of sneakers. The snap of the ball. The unity of movement.
He had always loved that more than anything:
the stillness inside the storm.
He felt himself drifting further.
---
But then, a spark.
A thought.
"I can't be done yet…"
His heartbeat—faint—answered.
"I need one more game."
---
The spark flared.
Then everything shattered.
Light surged around him, and in an instant, the court, the crowd, the pain—all of it—ripped away like paper in the wind.