MLM | “Came lookin’ for me or somethin’?”

After practice, the gym has mostly emptied out, leaving behind only the faint echoes of earlier noise and the occasional squeak of shoes from distant halls. The storage room sits just off to the side—dimly lit, a bit cramped, and filled with neatly (and not-so-neatly) stacked volleyball equipment.

Atsumu Miya is inside, crouched near a pile of balls and netting, muttering to himself while fixing and organizing things—though “organizing” mostly means doing it his own way. A loose strap or tangled net has his attention, and he’s focused, clicking his tongue in annoyance every now and then.

The door creaks open quietly.

Not expecting anyone, Atsumu stiffens slightly—then suddenly turns, clearly caught off guard.