The air back at the dorm wasn't loud.
No shouting. No jokes. No post-win madness.
Just the soft rustle of jerseys being hung up, the hiss of showers behind tiled walls, and the occasional clink of toothbrushes tapping against porcelain sinks.
Horizon had won.
They'd silenced the Wolves.
But no one felt like celebrating.
Not because the victory wasn't real—
But because the war wasn't over.
Dirga sat on the edge of his bunk, forearms resting on his knees, eyes half-lidded as sweat slowly dried on his skin. A towel hung from his neck, damp and warm. His breathing had already returned to normal.
But his mind hadn't stopped moving.
Across the room, Aizawa lay flat on the wooden floor, rolling out his shoulder on a tennis ball. Silent. Focused. No headphones. No small talk.
