The buzzer had just echoed.
The first quarter was over—but no one on Horizon was relaxing.
The moment they stepped into the bench zone, Sayaka was already there, moving with practiced precision. Towels. Water bottles. Focused eyes.
"Nice game," she said, her voice light—but proud.
Dirga took the towel with a small nod. The sweat still clung to his neck like heat-soaked chains.
Coach Tsugawa stepped in, clapping once to bring everyone’s eyes forward.
"Good first quarter," he said, tone calm but sharp. "Dirga, keep anchoring the pace. That was solid defense."
Dirga wiped his face and answered in a breath, "Yes, coach."
"Taiga. Rikuya. I want Masaki tagged every second he’s on the floor. Shadow him. No space. Don’t fall for his rhythm. Break it."
"Understood," both replied in unison, sweat dripping off their brows.
"Rei, keep doing what you’re doing. Play clean, control the weak side," Coach nodded at the shooting guard, who responded with a firm nod.
"And Aizawa—sit this one out to start. We’ll sub in Hiroki for speed variation."
"Yes, coach," Aizawa replied, though his chest was still heaving from the nonstop sprinting in the first quarter.
Dirga glanced toward him.
He’d run like a machine that entire quarter—cutting, sprinting, chasing. Maybe it was in his blood. Aizawa had once been a baseball prodigy, before switching to basketball without ever giving much of a reason.
"Because this is more fun."
But was that really it?
Or was he running from something—chasing something even baseball couldn’t give?
But that answer could wait.
Right now, he had something more urgent:
Because as long as Aizawa played like that—like the wind itself—then Dirga had no right to stop.
He would burn with them until the final buzzer rang.
he five of them dropped onto the bench, sweat falling like rain, chests rising and falling in sharp rhythm.
Aoi, calm as ever, moved between them with silent precision. Water. Towels. Reassurance.
"Here," she said softly, handing a bottle to Masaki.
He accepted it, steam still rolling from his body. His jaw clenched. His eyes burned like coals in a storm.
"Thanks," he said. Then, after a pause—his voice low but razor-sharp:
"Cheer up. We’ll win this."
Aoi gave a small smile—but the tension in her chest didn’t ease.
They weren’t used to being behind.
Coach Reina stepped forward, clipboard in hand, eyes fierce behind her glasses.
"Okay. That wasn’t bad," she said, sharp and direct. "But it wasn’t enough. Yuto—"
"Yes, Coach," Yuto nodded, still breathing hard.
"You need to shake off Dirga."
He bit his lip. "I’m trying. But... he’s different today. He’s reading me too clean. It feels like that first practice match all over again."
Coach Reina narrowed her eyes. "No. It’s deeper. It’s like he knows us—like he’s already lived through this game before."
Masaki lifted his head at that. Quiet. Thinking.
He knows our rhythm. Too well.
"But it doesn’t matter," Reina continued. "We’ve grown since then. We’ve evolved. This is just a seven-point gap. One run, and we flip the tempo."
She turned to the team, voice cold with strategy now:
"Stick to the plan. Keep targeting their power forward—Taiga. He’s got the most explosive energy, but that means he’s also the most emotional."
She looked at Masaki.
"You know it from the camp. He bites too hard on pride. So bait him. Make him overcommit. Make him doubt. Once he cracks—the wall falls."
He understood exactly what that meant.
Coach Reina continued:
"Masaki—tear them open. Yuto—make them choke every possession. And the rest of you—Shunpei, Daichi, Haruto—you complete the system. We win this together."
The five players looked at one another. No need for extra words now.
Masaki stood as the buzzer sounded.
"Let’s burn it down."
End of 1st Quarter – Horizon 19, Toyonaka 12
The tension in the arena didn’t drop—it doubled.
Spotlights bounced across the court. The crowd buzzed like a live wire, breath held between heartbeats.
And at center court—Masaki stood up.
Just fire behind his eyes.
The second quarter opened with Yuto bringing the ball up.
But everyone in the stadium could feel it.
This possession wasn’t his.
It belonged to Masaki.
Yuto passed it early—like a conductor handing the baton to a soloist.
And as Masaki caught the ball—
It was like flipping a switch.
No, like throwing a lit match into dry leaves.
He accelerated so fast the defenders didn’t react—they hesitated.
Even Toyonaka looked momentarily stunned by his sudden eruption.
Taiga stepped up—tight on the body, arms wide.
Rikuya hovered deeper in the paint, anchoring the Horizon zone.
But it didn’t matter.
Masaki wasn’t breaking the defense.
He was commanding it.
Daichi sprinted in for a hard screen—perfect timing.
Masaki shifted right, curling with the motion. Taiga braced to avoid the screen, sliding around it—
And in that exact heartbeat—Masaki exploded left.
He faked the read, and left Taiga spinning.
A clean break. No one between him and the arc.
Smooth. Silent. Surgical.
And when the ball kissed the net—
Masaki didn’t celebrate. He just lowered his arm with icy calm, eyes already hunting his next target.
The moment the ball swished through the net, the arena trembled.
A delayed roar. A wave crashing over expectation.
Ayaka, up front with the Horizon cheer team, clenched her fists—lips parted in a gasp.
She hadn’t even called the cheer. No one had.
Masaki had shut them all up.
"That... was cold," someone whispered nearby.
"He’s serious now," another murmured.
The rustle of pom-poms faded for a breath.
Then Ayaka snapped back. She raised her voice, sharp and commanding.
"HORIZON, HOLD YOUR LINE!"
The cheer team moved like they’d been shocked back to life.
Chants resumed, voices rising, but Ayaka’s gaze lingered.
It was on Dirga—the one carrying Horizon’s pulse, the one standing between Toyonaka and collapse.
He was holding back a storm behind those calm eyes.