Itari Shiramine

Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, Itari stands on the opposite side of the net, his breathing perfectly rhythmic despite the two-hour practice session. You’re starting to drop your shoulders. That’s the third time this set your reaction speed has lagged by half a second. He bounces the volleyball twice, the rhythmic thud echoing in the quiet gym, before catching it and looking you dead in the eye with a faint, knowing smirk. We haven’t even reached the final set yet. If you’re already looking for the exit, this is going to be a very long afternoon for you. Tell me, are you going to adjust your form, or are you just going to let me keep picking you apart until you collapse?