The gym looked different at night.

Not darker—quieter.

Like the air itself was waiting to judge him.

Shunjin stood at midcourt, hands on his hips, sweat sliding off his jaw. The second unit players were scattered around, catching their breath, each one avoiding eye contact.

Takeda's voice sliced through the silence.

"Again. Reset."

Shunjin clenched his jaw until it hurt.

He jogged back to the baseline with the second unit, each step heavy and frustrated.

On the sidelines, Yuuto watched with a towel around his neck. Marcus leaned against the wall, unreadable. Daniel sat cross-legged, studying Shunjin with unsettling calm.

Shunjin could feel all their eyes.

He hated it.

Takeda tossed the ball to the second-unit setter, Keita—short, fast, reliable hands.

"This drill is simple," Takeda said, pacing slowly with his arms folded behind his back. "Every possession ends with Shunjin's touch."

Keita nodded. Everyone else nodded.

Shunjin swallowed.

Takeda's eyes sharpened.

"You said you're the ace. Prove you can be the one we rely on."

The whistle blew.

Shunjin sprinted into position, shouting—

"Right side, right side—give—!"

But he was late.

Keita hesitated. The rhythm slipped. The ball drifted high and off-tempo.

Shunjin jumped anyway.

He slammed it—

—but landed wrong, stumbling forward.

The ball clipped the tape and died.

Takeda didn't yell.

That hurt more.

"Again."

Another rally.

Then another.

And another.

Each worse than the last.

A mistimed jump.

A poor read.

A late call.

A wild swing.

Raw power with no intention behind it.

After the sixth failed rally, Takeda finally stopped pacing.

"Shunjin."

The entire gym froze.

Shunjin stood bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

Takeda walked toward him slowly until Shunjin could see the disappointment in his eyes.

"Do you know," Takeda said softly, "what I'm looking at right now?"

Shunjin bit his lip. "A player who's trying—"

"No."

Takeda cut him off instantly.

"I see a hitter who wants the title of ace… but not the weight."

Shunjin's lungs tightened.

Takeda looked at the second unit.

"Why didn't any of you set to him with confidence?"

Keita stared at the floor. "…His timing's off."

Someone murmured, "…Feels unpredictable."

"…Seems unsure."

"…He hesitates."

Each comment stabbed deeper.

Yuuto stepped forward but Takeda raised a hand—stay back.

He turned to Shunjin again.

"You heard that, didn't you?"

Shunjin's voice cracked. "…Yes."

Takeda's tone sliced—quiet but sharp.

"Power isn't presence.

Jump height isn't gravity.

And ego is not reliability."

Shunjin clenched his fists. "Then what is an ace supposed to be?"

Takeda pointed straight at his chest.

"Someone the team trusts.

Even when they're exhausted.

Even when they're pressured.

Even when they're terrified."

He stepped closer.

"Someone they want to set to… because they know you'll deliver.

Not sometimes.

Not once in a highlight moment.

Every. Single. Time."

The words punched the air out of Shunjin's lungs.

Marcus muttered, "Damn…"

Yuuto looked down, sympathy in his eyes.

But Takeda wasn't finished.

"Right now, your swings have no soul. No intent. No tempo. You hit because you want to be seen."

He tapped Shunjin's forehead. "This is loud."

He tapped Shunjin's chest. "This is silent."

Shunjin looked away in shame.

Takeda softened—but only a little.

"You could be an ace. But potential is worthless if you vanish the moment pressure shows up."

He stepped back.

"We're not training power. We're training belief.

Your belief in yourself… and the team's belief in you."

Shunjin tried to steady his breath.

Takeda shouted:

"Second unit! Reset!"

They lined up again.

This time, Shunjin didn't speak.

Didn't call for the ball.

Didn't demand anything.

Keita set up for a jump set, watching Shunjin carefully.

Shunjin made eye contact—

—but there was fear in his eyes.

The hesitation broke the play.

The set dropped short.

Shunjin lunged and barely tapped it over.

It landed weakly.

Takeda didn't blow the whistle.

He simply said:

"You're scared to ask for the ball now."

Shunjin's throat tightened.

Marcus whispered, "Bro…"

Yuuto covered his mouth.

Something inside Shunjin cracked.

"I… I'm trying, coach."

Takeda didn't blink.

"I know.

But trying is not enough for someone who calls himself an ace."

That broke him.

Shunjin bowed his head, sweat dripping.

His shoulders trembled. His breath hitched.

"…Why," he whispered, "why can't I just get it right…"

Takeda stepped closer.

"Because you're trying to look impressive, not trustworthy."

Shunjin's eyes widened.

Takeda raised a finger.

"You want the crowd to see you.

The team wants someone who sees them."

He stepped back.

"An ace is not the star.

He is the anchor."

Shunjin slowly raised his head, eyes glossy.

Takeda's voice dropped.

"You want the truth, Shunjin?"

"…Yes…"

"Right now…

Yuuto has more gravity than you."

Shunjin's stomach fell through the floor.

"Yuuto," Takeda continued, "controls tempo. Shapes the court. Players trust him with the ball."

He met Shunjin's eyes.

"You? You're chasing a spotlight instead of creating certainty."

Shunjin stared at the ground.

He felt small.

Exposed.

Empty.

Takeda stepped back.

"Start over."

The drill resumed.

This time—

Shunjin breathed.

Quieted his mind.

Grounded his feet.

He watched Keita's shoulders, the blockers' hands, the rhythm of the ball.

He stopped thinking about the word ace.

A clean set rose.

Shunjin approached—not early, not late.

He swung.

Not with ego.

With purpose.

The crack echoed clean across the court—a perfect shot to the corner.

Takeda nodded once.

"Again."

Something shifted.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A wipe.

A tool.

A deep cross.

A line shot.

A soft roll.

He wasn't trying to shine.

He was trying to deliver.

The second unit's sets grew cleaner.

Their trust flowed back into the rhythm.

Yuuto sat forward.

Marcus murmured, "He's getting it."

Daniel nodded once.

Twenty rallies later—

Shunjin stood at the baseline, drenched, breathing hard…

but something in his eyes had changed.

Focused.

Calm.

Sharp.

He lifted his hand and stared at it.

Whispered:

"…I'll earn the word 'ace.'"

Takeda finally let a small smile slip.

"That's your first step toward gravity."

---

Night fell over the Seiryō gym like a heavy curtain. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, judging every breath.

Practice had ended hours ago.

Everyone was exhausted.

Everyone except Shunjin—still pacing, replaying every mistake.

Yuuto and Marcus packed up near the benches. Daniel drank water slowly. Daichi sprawled on the floor, half-dead.

Then—

A sharp whistle.

Takeda.

No clipboard.

No softness.

No patience.

His presence alone stiffened the air.

"Second unit," Takeda said calmly, "back on the court."

The starters froze.

Shunjin froze.

Takeda pointed at him.

"You. Stay."

Shunjin's heart thumped painfully.

Yuuto whispered, "Bro… what did you do?"

No answer.

Takeda turned to the others.

"Everyone else. Sit. You're watching this."

No arguments.

They sat.

Shunjin felt like he was standing in front of a tribunal.

Takeda approached, eyes like knives.

"Shunjin."

"…Yes, Coach?"

Takeda exhaled sharply.

"Do you know why we're here?"

"I… didn't perform well?"

"Understatement."

Takeda's glare intensified.

"You think you're the ace, but you're not playing like one."

Shunjin swallowed hard.

"You mistake noise for presence.

Volume for gravity."

Shunjin flinched.

Takeda walked to center court.

"Get with the second unit."

Shunjin obeyed—Hiro, Kenji, Masato, Kei.

Not bad players.

Just not aligned with him.

Takeda crossed his arms.

"Thirty minutes. One rule."

A verdict:

"Shunjin must finish every play."

The gym went silent.

Marcus muttered, "Damn…"

Takeda tossed the ball.

The drill began.

---

It was brutal.

The first rally lasted four seconds.

Hiro set too low.

Shunjin's timing off.

Swing.

Net.

Takeda didn't react.

Next rally—

Chaos.

Bad pass.

Late set.

Shunjin out of sync.

Out.

Yuuto winced.

Marcus covered his mouth.

It continued.

Rally after rally.

Bad sets.

Broken rhythm.

Mistimed jumps.

Blocked swings.

Frustration spilling everywhere.

Takeda's stare never moved.

Shunjin felt himself unraveling.

He wasn't angry at the second unit—

He was angry because an ace should make these broken plays work.

But he wasn't.

Rally 12—

A bad landing.

Shunjin winced.

Yuuto stood instantly.

"I'm fine," Shunjin lied.

"Again," Takeda said.

Rally 17—

Wild miss.

Ball slamming into the wall.

Hikari whispered, "He's collapsing…"

Takeda replied, "Good. Let it break."

Rally 23—

Shunjin was shaking.

Vision blurry.

Breathing ragged.

He swung anyway.

Failed anyway.

Finally—

"I… I can't… keep up…"

He bent over, trembling.

Takeda stepped forward.

"Stop."

Shunjin didn't look up.

"Do you know why you're failing?" Takeda asked softly.

No response.

Takeda crouched to eye level.

"Because you're trying to hit…

not to be trusted."

Shunjin froze.

"An ace isn't the strongest.

Or the loudest.

Or the flashiest."

Takeda placed a hand on his shoulder.

"An ace is the one everyone believes in—

even when the set is terrible,

when the play breaks,

when chaos erupts."

He squeezed gently.

"Gravity isn't shouting.

Gravity is certainty."

Shunjin's eyes burned.

Takeda stood.

"Again."

Shunjin wiped his face.

Stood tall.

Nodded.

This time—

He didn't swing hard.

He adapted.

Sloppy pass? Adjust.

Late set? Wait.

Hesitant teammate? Call calmly.

Score.

Score.

Score.

Yuuto whispered, "He's settling."

Marcus nodded.

Daniel smirked.

Shunjin's movements smoothed.

His vision cleared.

His timing synced.

He didn't demand the ball.

He earned it.

Finally—

A broken play.

Chaos everywhere.

Old Shunjin would've panicked.

But now—

"Here," he said softly. "I got it."

Kei set.

Shunjin rose.

Not with ego.

With purpose.

He found the hole.

Saw the seam.

And ended it.

Boom.

Point.

Silence.

Then Takeda exhaled.

"…Good."

Shunjin dropped to his knees, shaking—

but eyes clear.

He stared at his hand.

"…I'll earn the word 'ace.'"

Takeda turned away, hiding a smile.

"Practice is over."

Everyone knew:

Something broke.

And something stronger was born.

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