The gymnasium buzzed with the bitter sting of defeat. Hinata Shoyo stood frozen on the polished floor, his chest heaving, sweat trickling down his temples.
The shrill whistle's cry still echoed in his ears, a sharp punctuation mark to the end of his junior high volleyball dreams.
Across the net, Kitagawa Daiichi's players towered over his small, ragtag team, their smug smiles and casual high-fives a silent taunt.
The scoreboard loomed above:
25-13
25-11.
A massacre.
Hinata's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms as he fought the lump in his throat. His teammates shuffled off the court, heads bowed, but he couldn't move. Not yet.
"Next time," he whispered, voice trembling. "Next time, I'll—" He couldn't finish.
The image of the Little Giant burned in his mind—those impossible leaps, that fearless energy. Hinata wanted that.
He needed that. But right now, all he felt was small. Powerless. His legs wobbled, a weight pressing down on his chest.
He sucked in a sharp breath, willing himself to stay standing. Tears pricked his eyes, and he swiped them away with a shaky hand, turning from the court.
The gym's noise faded, his vision blurred, and a strange heaviness dragged at his body.
Then—
Nothing.
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Hinata jolted awake, gasping. His heart pounded, but the air around him felt… different. Stale yet familiar, carrying a scent of old fabric softener and warm wood.
His fingers curled into a mattress—not the firm, high-quality one he had grown accustomed to as a professional player, but the lumpy, well-worn bed of his childhood.
His eyes snapped open. Cracked plaster on the ceiling. A faint water stain in the corner. His breath caught in his throat. His pro apartment's sleek, modern design was gone.
Panic surged through him as he scrambled to sit up. The bed creaked beneath him, and that was when he noticed—his arms were thinner, his hands smaller.
The calluses from years of spikes and serves were gone, replaced by the soft, untested skin of youth.
His pulse roared in his ears as he stumbled toward the mirror on his old wooden desk. He stared.
A scrawny fifteen-year-old looked back at him. Wild orange hair, round cheeks, wide eyes filled with confusion and disbelief.
He reached up, patting his face, as if it might change under his touch.
"No way," he breathed.
His junior high uniform hung over the back of his chair, still damp with sweat from the match.
The match. The memory hit him like a spike to the gut—Kitagawa Daiichi, the loss, the sting of failure. But that was years ago.
He was twenty-five now. A pro in the V.League. His name was on jerseys, his plays on highlight reels. Wasn't he?
His chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. His mind spun, trying to grasp the impossible.
He remembered everything—Karasuno, nationals, Brazil, the Black Jackals. He even recalled his career in an eerie, detached way, as if watching a film instead of living it. That's strange.
But here he was, back in his childhood bedroom. Posters of the Romero still plastered the walls.
The cheap clock ticked on, oblivious to the fact that everything had changed. Except… had it?
A sharp rap on the door yanked him from his thoughts.
"Shoyo! Breakfast! Move it!"
His stomach twisted. Natsu. His little sister's voice, brassy and impatient, untouched by time.
His throat tightened. His fingers dug into the edge of the desk. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. "Uh—coming!"
His teenage voice cracked mid-word, and he winced. His body, his voice, his everything had been dragged back ten years.
Somehow. He yanked on a t-shirt and shorts, his mind a whirlwind of disbelief, and stumbled downstairs.
The scent of miso soup and grilled fish enveloped him the moment he entered the kitchen.
His mother stood at the stove, stirring a pot, while Natsu sat at the table, messily shoveling rice into her mouth. Her short orange hair stuck out in every direction.
"You're slow today," she said, smirking. "What's wrong? Still crying about that game?"
Hinata slid into his seat, staring at her. His heart clenched. She looked so young. Had he really been away from this version of her for a decade? He forced a grin, willing himself to play along.
"Nope," he said, voice almost steady. "Just… thinking."
His mother turned, setting a bowl of rice in front of him. She ruffled his hair absentmindedly. "You always think better after eating. Come on, eat up."
Hinata picked up his chopsticks, but his hand trembled slightly. This wasn't a dream.
He could smell the miso, feel the warmth of the rice in his hands, hear the clatter of dishes. This was real.
"You sure you're okay, Shoyo? You look pale," Natsu said, frowning. "That match yesterday really got to you, huh?"
Yesterday. The word sank in like a stone. This wasn't a dream. He had woken up right after the worst loss of his life—before high school, before Karasuno.
And yet, his future—every jump, every play, every victory—lived in his head, sharp as ever.
"I'm fine," he said, shoveling food into his mouth to avoid her gaze. "Just pumped for volleyball."
Natsu snorted. "You're such a freak."
He laughed, but it was shaky. His mind buzzed with possibilities. He knew what was coming—tryouts, rivals, the path to nationals. But now? Now, he could change it. Be better from the start.
School dragged on, a blur of familiar faces and half-heard lessons. Hinata barely listened as his classmates chattered about the match.
Some threw him pitying looks; others snickered about Kitagawa's "King." None of it mattered. His thoughts were locked on one thing: the court.
He had to test this. Had his pro skills come back with him, or was he still the same clumsy kid?
After school, he grabbed his old volleyball—the one he'd worn thin practicing alone—and bolted to the park.
The outdoor court was a wreck, cracked concrete and a sagging net, but it was enough.
The sun hung low, painting the sky orange as he dropped his bag and stepped onto the court, ball in hand.
"Okay," he muttered, bouncing it once, twice. "Let's see."
He tossed the ball high—higher than he'd ever managed at fifteen—his body moving on instinct sharpened by years of pro training. His feet struck the ground just right, knees bending, muscles coiling. Then—jump.
The air whistled past him, his vision narrowing as he soared, far beyond what his younger body should have been capable of. His arm swung back, years of technique guiding it, and he spiked.
The ball rocketed down with a crack, slamming into the concrete, kicking up dust and leaving a faint mark.
Hinata landed, breathless, a grin splitting his face. "I've still got it!" he shouted, pumping a fist.
Adrenaline surged through him. This wasn't just muscle memory—this was him, the pro Hinata, in this fifteen-year-old frame. He could jump higher, hit harder, move faster than he ever had back then.
The possibilities spun in his head: Karasuno, the dumpster battles, nationals—all of it, but better. He could rewrite everything.
He spiked again. Then again. Each hit was sharper, stronger, more precise. The ball thumped against the ground, the sound echoing through the empty park.
He lost track of time, sweat soaking his shirt, until the sun dipped below the horizon and the streetlights flickered on.
Panting, he flopped onto his back, staring up at the darkening sky, the volleyball rolling to a stop beside him.
"This is insane," he murmured, laughing to himself. "I'm back… and I'm gonna crush it."
But then, a flicker of doubt crept in. The future he knew wasn't set anymore. He had the skills, sure, but what about everything else? Kageyama, Tsukishima, the team—would it all play out the same? Or had he already changed something just by existing like this?
He shook his head and sat up. "Doesn't matter," he muttered, grabbing the ball. "I've got a second shot. I'm not wasting it."
The walk home was quiet, the night air cool against his skin. His mind churned with plans. and Karasuno awaited.
He knew the gym, the team, the rivals. He knew Kageyama would be there, that smug setter with his killer serves.
But this time, Hinata wouldn't be the underdog. This time, he'd be ready.
As he slipped into bed, the weight of it all settled over him. In a few weeks, he'd start high school.
He'd step onto that court with ten years of pro experience in his pocket. He'd shock them all.
"Karasuno," he whispered into the dark, a fierce grin tugging at his lips. "Kageyama. Just you wait."
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Hinata Love Interest???
Kiyoko
Yes -->
Definitely Yes -->
No Love Interest -->
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