Score: Blazing Fox 74 – Vorpal Basket 71
3rd Quarter – 5:42 Remaining
The gym lights glared above like twin suns. Sweat clung to every jersey, dripping onto the hardwood. The crowd was loud — but in Ethan’s ears, all of it faded to a static hush.
He stood near the sideline, towel around his neck, hands on his hips, eyes locked on the court.
And his thoughts burned:
"(The hell... they’re not tired?)"
"(They’ve been on since the first... full-court presses, switches, off-ball cuts, and they’re still this fast... this focused...)"
He scanned them again — Leonel Blaze, still sprinting like the game just started.
Jace Holloway, draining a corner three like it was warm-up.
Titan Reed, flying in for boards and crashing the rim.
Noah Vance, eyes cold, reading passing lanes like chess pieces.
DeShawn Briggs, towering over the court, swatting Brandon’s shot earlier like it was a fly.
Ethan’s brow twitched. His breath short. His fingers tensed.
"(We’ve been grinding, bleeding for every point... and they’re acting like they haven’t broken a sweat.)"
On the court, Lucas slapped the floor in defense, breathing hard.
Brandon’s knees were bent, hands low — locked in.
Ryan, for once, wasn’t making jokes.
Josh and Evan, both panting between possessions, were focused, eyes on Leonel and Jace like hawks.
Ayumi stood behind the bench, watching Ethan.
The one that only showed up when he was calculating something dangerous.
She asked, gently, "Ethan... what’s wrong?"
He didn’t look at her.
"They’re machines..."
Ayumi blinked. "What?"
Ethan turned slightly, voice flat:
"They’re not just talented. They’re conditioned like no one we’ve faced. They’ve trained for longer... smarter."
"Their chemistry is second nature."
He took a slow, deep breath.
"And we’re almost out of gas."
On the court – 5 minutes remaining, 3rd Quarter
Score: Blazing Fox 77 – Vorpal Basket 71
Leonel Blaze sliced through the chaos.
Evan tried. God, he tried.
But Leonel’s feet were already two steps ahead.
He danced around the double screen like wind dodging stones and in one smooth pivot, drove down the lane.
His eyes flashed. That inhuman sixth sense Zone Vision activated.
Bounce pass. No look. Clean timing.
Jace Holloway caught it without thinking.
Step-back. Flick. Swish.
The net barely moved.
Score: 77–71. Blazing Fox lead widens again.
"They’re pulling again!"
Kai muttered, fists clenched.
"We’re letting it slip... again!"
His fingers gripped the edge of his shorts. Jaw tight. But he didn’t speak.
Because inside his head?
The gears were screaming.
"(We run with them — we die before the fourth. Our bench? They’re fighters, not machines.)"
"(But if we slow it down, Leonel takes over. He bends time. Controls pace. And if he does that... it’s over.)"
He glanced at Lucas, chest heaving, sweat falling like rain. Too much used of Mimicry.
Then to Josh, Brandon, Evan still not tired due to Lucas.
Seated at the end of the bench, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head down — like a fighter waiting for the bell.
Suddenly, Louie stood.
"Let me in, Ethan!" he barked.
One eyebrow raised, but his tone stayed calm.
"’Cause I’m gonna show them... what a real street baller looks like."
A ripple of energy went through the bench.
"Junior? You didn’t even show them in the 2nd quarter."
Louie cracked his neck and shrugged.
"Hmph. I was just reading them. That’s why I didn’t need to use my full power in that second quarter."
"Pfft—!" Josh burst out laughing.
"This guy really said ’reading them’ like he’s in some anime!"
"Man thinks he’s a manga panel," Brandon snorted.
"Okay, I’ll give you that one, Junior. Show us this ’full power’ then."
Ayumi covered her mouth, stifling a giggle.
Her eyes were curious.
Ethan, still half-serious, half-intrigued, leaned in.
"Alright then, Louie. What’s your plan?"
Louie tightened his shoelaces, voice confident.
"I don’t play traditional. I break rhythms. I make chaos. I make the ’maestro’ over there hit the wrong note."
He jerked a thumb toward Leonel, who stood midcourt calm, calculating, untouchable.
"You wanna shake their system?" Louie said.
"Then let me flip the table."
(Maybe that’s exactly what we need.)
Ayumi nodded and signaled to the officials.
Louie jogged toward the scorer’s table, peeling off his warmup.
As he stepped onto the court, he looked over his shoulder.
Leonel turned just slightly eyes sharp, unreadable.
"Time to mess up your tempo."
Lucas turned to Louie, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips.
He rolled his shoulder and stepped closer, bumping Louie lightly with his arm.
"Don’t hold me down out there," Lucas said, teasing, his golden eyes gleaming with playful fire.
Louie scoffed, eyes narrowing.
"You’re the one who better not hold me down!" he shot back, pointing at Lucas’s chest.
Ayumi just smiled from behind her clipboard, watching them.
But her gaze lingered on Lucas just a little longer before turning to Louie.
(They’re both fired up...)
("Good. That’s what we need right now.")
Crowd reaction was instant.
A murmur, a rise of cheers.
The moment crackled with something rare.
The kind that could break even the most perfect rhythm.
Louie Gee and Lucas Graves were about to bring the street into the rhythm.
Meanwhile, in the shadowy top row of the old Midtown Arena, a lone figure leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hood half-draped over his eyes.
Jan, Louie’s childhood friend, had snuck in with barely enough change for the cheapest seat. But he wasn’t going to miss this.
He watched as Louie stepped onto the court, bumping shoulders with Lucas, full of bravado as always. But Jan knew what lay underneath the jokes, the taunts, the swagger.
"He’s doing that thing again," Jan muttered under his breath.
"Acting like it’s just fun... like it doesn’t matter."
But then Louie’s eyes glanced toward the stands for just a second — not long, but just enough. Enough for Jan to catch it.
And that was all it took.
Jan’s grip tightened on the edge of his seat. His heart beat a little harder.
"(Good luck, Louie.)"
"(This is your moment. Show them what streetball really looks like.)"
As the whistle blew and the game resumed, Jan leaned back, the faintest grin playing on his lips.
"Make ’em remember your name."