Dirga’s heart ticked once, hard.
This was counter-composition.
Dirga took the ball up top.
Aizawa and Taiga lifted—shoulders tight.
Rikuya settled low post.
But something was... crooked.
Taiga’s screen came a half-beat early.
Aizawa’s cut—too shallow, angle wrong.
The motion was drifting.
A half-step too high, a half-second too still.
Just enough to pull Taiga out of sync,
Which dragged Sho into the wrong lane,
Which forced Dirga to pivot blind—
Toshiro exploded through the passing lane.
Dirga spun sideways—barely escaped.
That’s two defenders dodged.
Ryōta flashed into view—lunging, late.
Fake. Break. Split right.
[ Phantom Drive – Untouchable: ACTIVATED ]
The lane bent—like it knew what was coming.
Sho, Toshiro, even Ryōta—
A pass dropped backward, like a trapdoor opening.
Just the faint echo of Dirga’s breath catching in rhythm again.
The bench erupted—once.
A single flash of noise.
Gone as quickly as it came.
Didn’t glance at the scoreboard.
Eyes already locked on Ryōta.
But for the first time all game—
The distortion had been seen.
The vision was fighting back.
Didn’t burn forward like a comet.
Godframe wasn’t about speed.
A living fracture point.
A brushstroke that bent structure before it dried.
Now Dirga could see it.
Not just where Ryōta was.
But where the distortion would form—
before it ever touched the page.
Kurotsuki possession.
Eiji swung to Toshiro.
Taniguchi drifted open-side.
Sho settled into the dunker spot.
But Ryōta ghosted toward the top—
Just in case Horizon jumped the first pass.
A single blue thread starting to fray.
The rhythm would collapse if Rei rotated.
Rikuya secured the board.
Dirga crossed halfcourt.
One second ahead of reality.
Ryōta drifting into the mid-slot.
Hunting the next seam before it opened.
Dirga didn’t call a set.
Didn’t check the sideline.
Rei ghosted baseline.
Dirga faked the pass—
"DIRGA WITH THE LOOK-AWAY LASER!"
"HE’S BREAKING THEIR SHAPE MID-PLAY!"
Kurotsuki’s bench stayed silent.
But Coach Renji’s hands tightened behind his back.
A subtle change in weight.
They descended slower this time.
Measured. Calculated.
Each step like gravity defied—intentionally.
This time, Ryōta didn’t float.
Posted near Taiga—anchoring structure into the chaos.
But Dirga read it. Instantly.
The thread shimmered—
A glance, a whisper of motion—
A finger brushing air.
Flexible. Tense. Waiting.
Caught it a beat too late.
Aizawa—always alert—snatched the long rebound.
Dirga didn’t call for it.
He let it run—like a conductor easing into tempo.
Rikuya ghosted through the middle.
Taiga flared to the right wing.
Jogged down the center lane.
Casual... deceptively so.
Ryōta stayed near the nail.
Waiting to trigger hesitation—
One mistake. One slip.
Look-off. Fire. Baseline zip.
But something had changed.
The illusion cracked.
He’d pulled the thread too tight.
"Dirga’s orchestrating this offense like a string section—each cut, each pass, a perfect note!"
"And Rei with the finish! No wasted motion—just surgical timing!"
Godframe ticked down—10 seconds. Then 6.
Dirga’s vision receded—back to real-time clarity.
This wasn’t improvisation anymore.
This was a duel in rhythm.
[GODFRAME DEACTIVATED]
Threads snapped back into the messy chaos of human motion.
Color. Pressure. Rhythm—
All dissolved into sweat and breath.
But Dirga didn’t flinch.
Because Godframe didn’t just show patterns—
It gave him intuition.
Eiji walked it upcourt—measured.
Toshiro lingered weak side.
Taniguchi drifted into the corner shadows.
Floating, quiet, effortless—
A ghost in the architecture.
A non-threat in constant motion.
But Dirga moved first.
He stepped off the script.
To flatten distortion.
He held the middle half a beat longer—
Delaying Aizawa’s shift.
A shoulder twitch—barely visible—
"Don’t chase the ghost."
Ryōta glided into the slot.
But Dirga was already there.
Not guarding the man.
Blocking the breath Ryōta needed.
Taniguchi flashed. Rei stuck to him like shadow.
Sho surfaced—Rikuya sealed it early.
Toshiro grabbed late.
Aizawa snared the board.
Transition tempo, throttled low.
Dirga had broken the echo.
Waved off the first cut.
Called for two-man tempo.
Simple. Intentional. Grounded.
Fake DRIBBLE HANDOFF—Dirga kept it.
Kurotsuki rotated—delayed.
His drift—his signature float—
No longer disrupted the rhythm.
Because Dirga had pulled the gravity line away from him.
Control had changed hands.
Kurotsuki’s bench stirred.
He was made irrelevant.
Dirga jogged back—slow, measured.
Under his breath—barely audible:
"You’re not invisible anymore."
Dirga was now playing