The smartphone screen glowed. AM 6:47. Kageyama Tobio opened his eyes in bed. Or rather, his eyes had been open for quite some time already. He'd simply been searching for a reason to get up. The 25-square-meter one-room apartment had an awkward way of letting in morning light. Since it didn't face east, opening the curtains didn't create glare. It just turned everything white. Tobio sat up. In the corner of the room, a volleyball lay on the floor. He wasn't using it for anything. No one had given it to him. He'd simply felt like keeping one ball in his room. That was all. He'd sent all the trophies and photographs back to his parents' house. Having evidence of those days in a place where he'd see it every day had felt unbearable. But the ball was different. He'd never thought about throwing it away. Why, he couldn't quite say. When he splashed water on his face at the sink, his eyes met his own in the mirror. Jet-black unruly hair, sharp brown eyes. Lean frame, but the muscles from his shoulders down his arms were clearly defined. A small piercing in his left ear—a colleague had once mentioned it seemed "not very corporate-like." He'd never considered taking it out. Tobio slipped on a white shirt and fastened the belt of his black slacks. He ate an onigiri he'd bought at a convenience store and headed toward Kinshicho Station. This was Monday morning. On the train, he gazed blankly out the window. When crossing the Sumida River, the water surface glimmered, reflecting the autumn light. Since October had begun, the morning air had grown crisp. When he ran along the riverbank, he'd wondered if his breath would turn white and had tried it, but it was still a bit too early. It'll happen soon, he thought, and didn't think about it any further. --- Vanguards Sports' headquarters was on the 12th floor of Travis Tower in Minato Ward, Minami-Aoyama. An eight-minute walk from Omotesando. It was exactly the kind of office building you'd expect in central Tokyo—the entrance was clean and spacious, and the receptionist wore her makeup perfectly every morning. Tobio said only "Good morning" and stepped into the elevator. No other words came. When he entered the 12th-floor space, several people from the Product Planning Department were already there. With 28 employees in the department, the planning team's desks occupied an open floor by the windows. Tobio's seat was two rows from the window, positioned so that Tokyo Tower just barely entered his field of vision at the edge. Vanguards actively hired former athletes—about 15% of the company's employees were ex-competitors. Tobio had been hired as one of them. A person who'd played volleyball joining a company that made volleyball equipment. The logic was sound. Yet somehow, every morning, his feet felt just a little heavy. Tobio sat at his desk. No sticky notes. No photographs. No traces of memos. Just a computer and a protein bottle. His colleague Yano's desk was always covered in sticky notes, with three character mascots lined up at the edge. Compared to Tobio's desk, it looked like a different room entirely. 8:50 AM. The regular meeting began. The conference room was in the center of the office floor. Today's agenda was about the design proposal for a new volleyball shoe. There was a task for everyone to compile presentation materials for the seasonal exhibition. Product Manager Matsumoto stood at the front and began speaking. Tobio listened while looking at the notepad in front of him. "So, I'd like to hear your opinion from a current player's perspective. Kageyama, what do you think about the outsole shape on this new design?" All eyes turned to Tobio. "[serious]……No problems." The conference room fell silent for a moment. "Could you be a bit more specific? In terms of the sensation when you're setting, that kind of thing?" "[serious]Understood." Silence again. Yano, sitting next to him, gave a small cough. A 25-year-old former soccer player who'd started around the same time as Tobio. When the meeting ended and they returned to the floor, Yano quietly called out to him. "[sarcastic]Kageyama, you should probably talk a bit more. You've got actual player experience, after all." Tobio looked at Yano's face and paused for a moment. "[serious]……Yeah, you're right." With just that, he returned to his desk. He had things he wanted to say. The new outsole's shape really did bother him. When a setter lands after a jump set, the sensation felt slightly off from this design. But he didn't know how to put it into words. On the court, his body had moved on its own. He could have shown it through play. But he couldn't do that in a conference room. Putting things into language—he'd never been good at that. Not since the beginning. When he was playing volleyball, that had been fine. --- In the afternoon, Tobio opened video footage of Irie, a young V-League setter. A 20-year-old setter who'd supposedly grown rapidly this season. Motion analysis of the footage for a product proposal was Tobio's task for this afternoon. He needed to read the shoe's wear patterns and the stress on the ankles during jumps from the video. Irie appeared on the computer screen. Approach. Plant. Jump. The moment he set the ball, Tobio's hand stopped. The angle of the fingertips. The direction of the gaze. The way the body moved in the air. It overlapped with his former self. Tobio couldn't move for a while. On screen, Irie continued playing. A dull ache ran through Tobio's right knee. An old injury. It always came from there. It was autumn of his second year in the corporate league. During practice, the moment he was about to set for a spiker, he felt something wrong from deep within his knee. Not quite a sound, but definitely something happening. After that, everything moved fast. His body collapsed on the court, teammates rushed over, an ambulance came. He remembered the doctor's words clearly. "I think you should accept that competitive play is no longer possible." Tobio closed his eyes. Three seconds. He opened them and closed the computer screen. He placed both hands on the keyboard and stayed like that for a while. He could hear someone at a nearby desk on the phone. The copy machine was running. About two minutes later, Tobio opened a different file. The product proposal format. A white sheet, filling in numbers and categories. That was all. His way of processing emotion was already decided. Close it, pause, move forward. It hadn't changed since his days on the court. It wasn't that he didn't know how to cry. It was just that he couldn't find a place to do it. Beyond the office window, Tokyo spread out. A wind was blowing somewhere, and he thought he saw something like ripples on the building's wall, so Tobio gazed in that direction for a while. That was all. Then his eyes returned to the screen. --- At 12:20 PM during lunch break, Yano called out to him. "[gentle]Want to grab ramen? A new place opened in Minami-Aoyama." "[serious]I have a prior engagement." "[surprised]Oh, I see." Yano looked a bit surprised but quickly said "See you later" and left with other colleagues. The prior engagement was a lie. Tobio headed toward the back of the floor. He stopped in front of the door marked "Lab Zero." It was a verification room used for floor material hardness tests and shoe wear experiments, and almost no employees used it during lunch break. When he entered, the air changed. A mini court's floor material spread out before him. About the size of a basketball free-throw lane. High ceiling. No windows. A silence that seemed to absorb sound. Tobio opened a locker and took out a volleyball. No one knew about this habit. Shortly after joining, he'd come here during his first lunch break. There was no particular reason. It was just that being on the floor that day had felt unbearable. He placed the ball in his palm. Its weight transmitted through his fingers. Tobio tossed it toward the wall. The ball traced an arc and hit the wall. It bounced back. He caught it. He tossed again. Tobio's expression changed, just slightly. His face had remained the same throughout the morning meeting and while watching the video. Now, a faint light returned to his eyes. His breathing deepened. The sensation of the ball leaving his fingertips always resonated somewhere in his chest. A man who'd left the court, creating a court outside the court. It was too small to really call it that, but for Tobio, it was exactly that. The ball traced an arc. Then another. He didn't know how long he'd been doing this when his smartphone alarm rang. 1 PM. Lunch break over. Tobio returned the ball to the locker. He locked it. He opened the door. When he stepped back onto the floor, the voices of colleagues, the sound of the copy machine, the ringing phones—all of it returned. Tobio's face was back to normal. The Tokyo Tower visible from this angle was only half-visible. The other half was hidden in the building's shadow. He confirmed this blankly and took his seat. --- He left work after 7 PM. When the elevator descended to the first floor, the automatic doors of the entrance opened, and the cool night air of Minami-Aoyama flowed in. It was crisp, and the smell of restaurants drifted from somewhere. He walked to Omotesando and boarded the subway. It took about 25 minutes to Kinshicho, including transfers. He held the hanging strap and gazed at the hanging advertisements. A sports drink commercial, a job-change service ad, a poster for some musical. Nothing resonated. He was just riding. He got off at Kinshicho, passed through the shopping street, and the worn mailbox of Corpo Minase came into view. A 19-year-old five-story building, his room was 305 on the third floor. There was an elevator, but for some reason, he always took the stairs. When he opened his door, silence came again. He turned on the light. He placed a convenience store bag on the table. Nori bento and a bottle of tea. When he opened the refrigerator, there were two convenience store side dishes and half a protein drink. Three days' worth of laundry was piled in front of the washing machine. He thought he'd do it tomorrow, but it would probably be the day after. Tobio opened the nori bento and slightly pulled open the balcony window. Outside air seeped in thinly. He could see the Skytree. At night, the light changed to a different color than usual. Tonight it was bluish. He wondered if there was some meaning to it, but he didn't feel like looking it up. He ate his bento while gazing at it blankly. Once, there were people who'd watched his play at some venue and been thrilled by it. Those people were still living somewhere in Tokyo, talking and laughing with someone today. They'd long since forgotten about Tobio. That was fine. That was normal. But that heat—it wasn't here anymore. He threw the empty container into the trash. It landed cleanly. He brushed his teeth, turned off the light, and got into bed. 10:40 PM. He closed his eyes. The ceiling was dark. Occasionally, the sound of a car drifted in from outside. After a while, his smartphone vibrated. He didn't feel like looking at the screen, so he left it. But the vibration came again. He reached out and turned the screen toward him. It was an unknown number. Not a message app—a notification from the company's chat tool. He opened it. A single short message. "Kageyama, I have something to discuss about tomorrow's footage work. I'll be waiting in the break room——Tachibana" Tobio stared at the screen. Tachibana. He had a memory of hearing the name. It was definitely on the same-year hire list. Female, Product Planning Department, Tachibana Rin. Nothing more came to mind. He knew she worked at a desk three seats away. But he'd never spoken to her. He might not have even really looked at her face properly. The footage work probably referred to Irie's play video. It should