Shockwaves of momentum swept across the hardwood, rumbling the core of Earth.

  Plays by plays, Port Osea Divers unleashed their synchronized tempo, stripping the game down to speed and velocity.

  Lisa Denire anchored the entire system as the ultimate launchpad. Every incoming Larken serve met her forearms and instantly shot forward. She flattened the traditional passing arc completely. The leather traveled on a low and rapid trajectory, skimming just above the net height straight into the setter's zone.

  Willow Vance waited in the pocket, bypassing her own vision entirely. Processing visual data would take precious milliseconds that she could save to trust her teammates instead. She surrendered her body to the ingrained signalling of her muscle memory. The ball brushed her fingertips. Snap. Her wrists fired the leather to the pins.

  Around the setter, a tidal wave of blue jerseys surged. Himeko Nakamura, Jules Moreno, and Sarah Lemear ignited their approach runs at the exact same millisecond. Three attackers charged the net in one coherent unison. Sneakers shrieked against the varnish, composing a synchronized chorus. They flooded the attack line, overwhelming the opponent's visual field with multiple immediate threats.

  Across the white tape, the Larken Silvereye defense drowned. The green jerseys appeared completely submerged, moving as if trapped underwater against a crushing current. Sasha Sinnott barked desperate orders, her voice tearing through the drafty gym, straining to mobilize her blockers. The commands arrived completely obsolete.

  By the time the Larken middle blocker planted her feet to load a jump, Jules was already at her apex. And before the green jerseys could even bend their knees to contest the airspace, the spike slammed into the floorboards.

  The red LEDs on the rusted stadium wall flickered, flickered and flickered in rapid succession.

  A flat pass from Lisa. A blind flick from Willow. Sarah hammered the right pin.

  7-3.

  Another low dig. Another simultaneous three-woman surge. Efbi drove a quick strike down the absolute center.

  10-4.

  Sasha Sinnott stood amidst the swirling panic of her side of the net. Green jerseys scrambled around her, chests heaving, their eyes wide from the trauma of blistering assaults.

  Sasha glanced at the high-spirited Divers. Sounds of stomping boots, screeching rubber, the panicked gasping of her own team, receded into the background.

  Her mind went to work. Visually, she dissected the Divers' synchronized tempo, peeling back the layers of speed to expose the underlying machinery.

  A revelation clicked into place. The entire sequence relied on a parlor trick of pre-committed routes. With all three Port Osea attackers launching into the air simultaneously, the setter possessed absolutely zero window to read the defense mid-flight. Willow Vance had to finalize her target a fraction of a second before the ball ever kissed her fingertips which Sasha assumed was on pure chances. If Sasha had been able to read that milliseconds before Ui committed to her decisions, she'd have won.

  ...

  Sasha surrendered the next few rallies, letting the points bleed away to buy herself processing time.

  11-4. 12-4.

  Sasha's eyes tunneled across the court, locking exclusively onto Willow Vance.

  The Osea setter launched into the air in a flawless physical poker face - spine arched, her hands framed the empty space above her forehead, composing an identical silhouette every single time her shoes left the varnish. By the moment Willow became airborne, the coordinates were already locked in. The decision happened on the ground.

  ...

  15-5.

  The Larken server struck the ball. Sasha stared specifically at the floorboards beneath Willow's feet.

  Lisa Denire's platform absorbed the heavy serve. Thwump.

  At that exact millisecond of impact, Willow's right heel twisted, microscopic. The foot angled outward, opening her hips just a fraction of a degree toward the right antenna.

  The ball reached Willow's hands. A lightning flick followed. The set rocketed to the right side for Sarah to score.

  Sasha breathed in, holding the theory in her mind for one more test.

  Another serve. Another low dig from Lisa. Sasha watched the setter's sneakers.

  The left heel pivoted.

  The set flew left. Jules Moreno hammered the kill.

  Bingo.

  ...

  The referee blew the whistle. The Larken server sent another heavy float dropping into the Osea backcourt. Lisa sank low to dig.

  Willow's left heel twitched outward.

  "Right! Full commit right!" Sasha's voice ripped through the arena.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The Larken middle blocker heard the command and flinched slightly. She abandoned the center court instantly, shuffling fast to the right antenna. She planted her feet with textbook precision right in the direct path of Jules Moreno's approach.

  Jules exploded upward. The Larken blocker ascended to meet her, constructing the wall exactly where Sasha demanded.

  Yet it was a bit too late.

  Her latitude keep rising yet Jules was already at her apex. Her hands hung three inches too low. Jules hovered in a higher atmosphere, looking down at the straining fingertips below her wrist.

  Jules cranked her arm. She hammered the leather clean over the top of the block, burying the ball into the floorboards unchallenged.

  ...

  The whistle blew again.

  Serve crossed the tape. Lisa took the first touch.

  Willow's right heel ground against the varnish.

  "Deep left! Anchor the corner!" Sasha barked, throwing a hard finger toward the back zone.

  The Larken libero scrambled backward. She halted exactly on the invisible X Sasha had just mapped out for her, dropping her hips to brace for the incoming impact.

  The set zipped to the right pin. Sarah Lemear took flight and unloaded a heavy cross-court swing.

  The trajectory followed Sasha's prediction perfectly. The ball hurtled on a direct collision course with the libero's chest.

  The libero's brain registered the incoming missile. Her muscles attempted to snap her arms together to build the receiving platform. A tenth of a second of physical lag betrayed her nervous system. The leather bypassed her rising forearms completely.

  Smack.

  The ball detonated off her upper bicep. The violent ricochet sent the leather spinning wildly out of bounds, crashing hard against the advertising boards.

  ...

  Sasha Sinnott stood rooted to the hardwood. The tactical math inside her brain ran flawlessly. She held the key, screaming the exact answers to the test before the questions even materialized on the court. Step left. Drop the hips. Seal the line.

  Even though the green jerseys heard the commands; their minds understood the assignment. Their bodies simply failed the execution.

  A pristine blueprint existed inside Sasha's head where every play ran flawlessly through her reads. Her construction crew on the floor, however, possessed zero raw materials to build the actual defense. Reflexes lagged a fraction of a second too long. Verticals fell inches short of the required altitude. Larken's biological shortcomings turned every brilliant read into a hollow tragedy.

  Port Osea Divers smelled the blood and mercilessly ground the physical disparity into dust.

  The final rally initiated from another perfect pass from Lisa.

  Willow stepped into the pocket. Her wrists snapped.

  Sarah surged down the absolute center lane. The Larken middle blocker attempted to contest the airspace, scrambling to put a roof over the net. Her hands barely cleared the white tape.

  Sarah ascended into a completely different stratosphere. She hung in the open air, utterly uncontested, looking down at the desperate, straining fingers below. She whipped her arm forward.

  BOOM.

  A clean kill. The leather cratered into the floorboards.

  TWEEEEEEEEET! TWEEEEEEEEET!

  The referee's arm extended toward the Divers' side. The red LEDs locked the final count.

  Set 2 went to Port Osea Divers, 25-16.

  The Larken side of the net dissolved into misery. Green jerseys clumped together, shoulders slumping heavy toward the floor. Exhausted, devastated faces turned toward their captain.

  Profuse apologies spilled out as they walked off the court. They knew the bitter truth. Sasha had physically placed them on the exact coordinates required to survive the onslaught, yet their own physical limits cannot follow through.

  Sasha offered zero reprimand. Silence replaced her usual commands. She stood motionless amid the apologizing teammates. Her chest heaved slow and heavy. A hollow, exhausted look settled deep in her eyes as she stared blankly at the varnish of her home stadium.

  ...

  Himeko walked off the court, lifting the hem of her jersey to wipe the sweat from her chin.

  A hand clamped down firmly on her shoulder, forcing a sudden pause.

  Coach Elena leaned in close, pulling Himeko slightly away from the celebrating swarm of the Osea bench. Elena kept her voice pitched low, a quiet whisper slicing under the stadium noise.

  Elena murmured, her gaze tracking the defeated Silvereye captain across the stadium.

  "What do you think about Sasha?"

  Himeko's eyes drifted over to the lone, brilliant tactician on the other side.

  "She is a champion," Himeko answered honestly, her voice holding a profound professional respect. "We cannot let Angels, Herons or Clovers have her."