It's 5:00 AM. The sun hasn't even thought about coming up yet.
My alarm vibrates. I don't let it ring. My hand stops it at the exact second.
In my past life, at this hour, my mother would have had to scream at me three times to get me out of bed. Now, my eyes snap open. No grogginess. No "five more minutes."
I get up. My body feels light, but I know it's a trap. It's the energy of youth, not the endurance of training. If I don't take care of this chassis, it's going to rust before we even reach Nationals.
I go to the kitchen in silence.
I start my ritual. It's not just "eating breakfast." It's refueling.
I crack two eggs into a bowl over hot rice. I add natto (even though I still don't love the texture, I know it's pure protein and vitamin K2 for the bones). I slice a banana. A glass of milk.
As I chew methodically, I visualize my schedule.
Monday. Physical load and reception day. Tuesday. Blocking with Gojo. Wednesday. Serving and strategy.
I look at my hands. They hold the chopsticks firmly.
"I'm here," I whisper between bites.
Sometimes, it still feels like a fever dream. Waking up in high school again. Without Kageyama yelling "Idiot!" at me. Without Bokuto teaching me how to be a star. Without the hot sands of Brazil burning the soles of my feet.
But then I taste the rice and I know it's real.
I finish eating. I wash the dishes so my mom doesn't have to. I put on my running shoes.
I step out into the street. The morning air is cold and smells of dew.
I start jogging.
I don't run like a maniac like before. I control my breathing. Inhale, two steps. Exhale, two steps. I keep my heart rate in the aerobic zone. I'm building a base.
As my feet hit the asphalt, I think about my team.
It's a strange team. A patchwork team. A giant doll craftsman who is afraid of his own shadow but has hands of gold. A gyaru cosplay fanatic who is now designing uniforms with the intensity of a war general. A basketball player and a soccer player who don't know how to receive, but who won't leave me alone.
I smile as the wind hits my face.
It's perfect. It's a mess, but it's my mess.
I arrive at school long before any students. The janitor knows me by now, so he lends me the gym keys (a small bribe with meat buns helped).
I enter.
The silence of the empty gym is sacred.
I turn on the lights. The electric hum is the only music. The floor shines. Marin and Gojo stayed late yesterday cleaning the corners. You can tell they care.
I drop my bag and take out my ball.
It's time.
There is no net to jump over. No blocks to dodge. Just me and the ball.
I toss it into the air.
I watch it spin. I see the tri-colored seams rotating. My mind calculates the drop, the speed, the spin.
I take three steps. Left, right, left.
I jump.
It's not my max jump. It's a control jump. My hand connects with the ball at the highest point.
BAM!
The sound is dry, clean. The ball impacts the back line, exactly where I wanted it, and bounces off toward the ceiling.
I land softly, flexing my knees to protect them.
I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of varnish and synthetic leather.
"I'm home," I say to the empty air.
I sit on the floor to start my deep stretching routine. Hamstrings, hips, ankles. Every muscle must be elastic.
As I stretch, I think about what's coming.
Izumi needs to learn to set without holding the ball. Koji needs to stop using his feet. Gojo... Gojo needs to believe he's a monster at the net.
I have to be patient. In Brazil, I learned that patience is just as important as power. I can't demand they be professionals in a week. I have to nurture them. I have to be the sun that helps them grow, not the sun that burns them.
I look at the wall clock. Twenty minutes until classes start.
I get up, pick up the ball, and put it in the cart.
I feel incredibly happy.
I don't have full stadiums. I don't have TV cameras. I don't have Olympic medals hanging around my neck.
I have an old gym, four rookie teammates, and a horrible green uniform that will soon be black.
And honestly, I wouldn't trade it for anything.
I have a second chance to fall in love with volleyball from the beginning. And this time, I'm going to savor every second.
I leave the gym, close the door carefully, and walk toward the main building.
"Alright, Shoyo," I tell myself, adjusting my backpack. "Time to survive math class. Afternoon practice promises to be good."
Today is teaching them to receive with their faces. Metaphorically. I hope.