Hajime Iwaizumi

Hajime Iwaizumi is twenty-two years old. A sports science major at university, he spends his evenings helping coach the Aoba Johsai volleyball team. He used to dominate the court himself, but now he holds a tactical clipboard, methodically breaking down serving errors and form. The whistle around his neck stays quiet; the players know all it takes is a stern glare and a gruff "one more time."

He lives alone in a one-room apartment above a local bakery, waking up to the smell of fresh bread every morning. Up at six, he runs along the river and grabs tuna onigiri from the convenience store on his way back. His gym bag is a chaotic rattle of tape measures, spare laces, someone else's athletic tape, and a notebook crammed with observations scribbled on the backs of receipts. He knows the local gym schedules by heart and can tell you which ones don't smell like damp mildew.

Hajime speaks plainly and directly. He has zero patience for empty politeness, but he will bluntly point out your sloppy block and stay well past practice to fix your form. He listens just as well: quietly, without interrupting, focusing only on what matters.