The jump ball didn't feel like a reset.

It felt like a challenge.

Marcus crouched low, eyes locked on the ball spinning between them, chest still rising and falling from the last collision. Hiroto mirrored him across the circle, posture loose, shoulders relaxed, as if this were nothing more than another possession.

The referee tossed the ball.

Both jumped.

Neither won clean.

The ball tipped sideways, skidding toward the sideline. Bodies converged. Hands slapped hardwood. Sneakers screeched.

Ugly.

Yuuto dove first, sliding on his hip, fingertips grazing leather. Minato crashed in next, knocking the ball loose again. It popped up—free for half a heartbeat—

—and Marcus snatched it mid-air.

No hesitation.

He pivoted and fired the outlet pass to Yuuto already sprinting upcourt.

"Push!" Coach Hikari barked.

Yuuto accelerated, dribble pounding harder than before. This wasn't fast break basketball. This was escape basketball—trying to score before Hakuro's defense could solidify.

Ryu was already back.

Of course he was.

Red aura faint, controlled, like a warning light rather than a blaze. He didn't overcommit, didn't lunge. He simply positioned himself between Yuuto and the rim, forcing him wide.

Yuuto cut left.

Ryu slid.

Right.

Ryu stayed.

Yuuto felt it—pressure without contact. Control without touch.

He kicked the ball out to the wing.

Marcus caught.

Hiroto was there.

Instantly.

Not late. Not early.

Exactly on time.

Marcus jabbed. Hiroto didn't flinch.

Marcus tried to bully inside—one hard dribble, shoulder lowered.

Hiroto absorbed it.

No whistle.

No give.

Just resistance.

Marcus spun, forced a fadeaway.

The ball hit rim, rattled once—

—and bounced out.

Hiroto secured the rebound with two hands, landing lightly, feet already turning upcourt.

No look around.

No wasted step.

Hakuro slowed the pace deliberately.

That was the shift.

The crowd noticed it first—not consciously, but instinctively. The rhythm changed. The game stopped feeling explosive and started feeling tight.

Every dribble echoed louder.

Every cut felt heavier.

Hakuro set up in their half-court offense, but this time the ball didn't go to Ryu immediately.

Minato held it at the wing.

Ryu stood off-ball.

That alone raised eyebrows.

Marcus stayed glued to Hiroto, denying the cut, denying the pass. Hiroto didn't fight it. He drifted instead—two steps here, one step there—subtle movements that stretched Seiryō's defensive shape without demanding attention.

Ren set a screen.

Yuuto fought over it.

Minato probed, then pulled back.

Ten seconds off the clock.

Hakuro wasn't hunting points.

They were testing patience.

Finally, the ball swung to Ryu at the top.

Yuuto squared up instantly.

Ryu didn't attack.

He stared.

Not at Yuuto.

At Marcus.

A flicker of irritation crossed his eyes.

Why aren't you open?

Hiroto felt it too.

For the first time, he cut harder—sharp diagonal toward the elbow. Marcus stayed with him, chest brushing shoulder, denying the lane.

Ryu hesitated.

That half-second mattered.

He drove anyway.

Yuuto slid.

Help came.

Ryu kicked out late.

Ren shot.

Clang.

Seiryō rebounded.

The crowd exhaled.

Not a cheer.

A release.

Yuuto jogged the ball up slower now, fingers tingling, pulse steadying. This wasn't about speed anymore. It was about who blinked first.

Coach Hikari didn't call anything fancy.

Just a hand signal.

Read and react.

Marcus set a screen, then slipped.

Hiroto followed.

Yuuto drove, pulled two defenders, then shoveled the ball back to Marcus under the rim.

Marcus went up—

—and felt Hiroto's hand on the ball.

Clean.

Blocked.

The ball ricocheted off the backboard and out of bounds.

Marcus landed hard, teeth clenched.

Hiroto extended a hand—not to help him up.

Just… acknowledgment.

Marcus slapped it away and stood.

"Again," he muttered.

Hiroto nodded once.

The next few minutes blurred into a grind.

Missed shots.

Deflections.

Scrambled rebounds.

The score barely moved.

The clock did.

Each possession felt longer than the last.

Marcus began to feel it in his legs first. Not fatigue—weight. Like every step cost a little more than before.

Hiroto felt nothing.

Or rather—he hid it perfectly.

He adjusted constantly. One step closer. Half-step back. Angle changes so subtle Marcus barely noticed until the lane was gone.

And Hiroto wasn't scoring.

That was the unsettling part.

He passed.

He screened.

He rotated.

He talked.

Quietly.

Directing traffic with hand gestures and glances.

Hakuro's defense tightened around him like a net.

Ryu, meanwhile, was growing restless.

Yuuto noticed it when Ryu started calling for the ball earlier in the shot clock. When his drives got sharper, more forceful. When his red aura flickered brighter, less controlled.

One possession, he waved Minato off entirely.

"Clear."

He attacked Yuuto hard—cross, burst, stop, pull-up.

Swish.

Clean.

The arena erupted.

Ryu jogged back, jaw tight.

Not satisfied.

Not enough.

The next possession, he forced it again.

Miss.

Coach Takeda's jaw clenched.

On Seiryō's side, Marcus finally got a small win.

Hiroto tried to post him.

Marcus dropped his center of gravity, dug his feet in, refused to budge. The entry pass came late.

Marcus tipped it.

Turnover.

The bench exploded.

"YES!"

Marcus didn't celebrate.

He just stared at Hiroto.

Hiroto stared back.

Neither smiled.

The duel had infected the game.

Everyone felt it.

With 3:12 left in the second quarter, Coach Takeda finally raised his hand.

Timeout.

The arena buzzed as both teams retreated.

Hakuro's huddle was tense.

Ryu spoke first.

"Tch. Why are they still this close?"

No one answered.

"They shouldn't even be able to breathe," Ryu snapped. "I shouldn't have to—"

"That's enough."

Coach Takeda's voice cut through him like a blade.

Silence fell.

Takeda didn't yell.

That was worse.

"This isn't a throne," he said calmly. "And you are not alone on this court."

Ryu clenched his fists.

"They're scoring on us."

"They're surviving," Takeda corrected. "There's a difference."

His eyes shifted—to Hiroto.

"Hiroto."

"Yes, Coach."

"You're doing fine. Don't let frustration speed you up."

Hiroto nodded.

Takeda looked back at Ryu.

"And you," he said quietly, "stop trying to win the game in one breath."

Ryu looked away.

On Seiryō's side, Coach Hikari crouched low.

"You're doing good," he said firmly. "Don't doubt that."

Yuuto swallowed. "They're reading us."

"Yes," Hikari agreed. "So stop trying to out-think them."

Marcus looked up.

"Then what?"

Hikari's eyes sharpened.

"Attack."

Not recklessly.

Not individually.

"Defense alone won't win this. You've proven you can stand with them. Now make them move."

Marcus nodded slowly.

The timeout ended.

Play resumed.

Seiryō inbounded.

Yuuto brought the ball up with purpose this time. Not rushed. Not cautious.

Intentional.

Marcus cut baseline, dragging Hiroto with him.

Yuuto drove middle, forcing Ryu to step in.

At the last second—

A wraparound pass.

Marcus slipped behind Hiroto.

Layup.

Swish.

The crowd exploded.

Hiroto turned immediately.

Not angry.

Alert.

Ryu exhaled sharply.

Hakuro answered.

Quickly.

Ryu drove, kicked to Minato.

Three.

Swish.

Back and forth.

The duel intensified.

Marcus denied Hiroto on one end.

Hiroto denied Marcus on the other.

Each stop was answered.

Each mistake punished.

No one pulled away.

The clock dipped under a minute.

Second quarter still unresolved.

Marcus bent forward between plays, hands on knees, sweat dripping.

Hiroto stood upright, calm as ever.

Ryu glanced at the scoreboard, jaw tight.

The gap wasn't gone.

But it was visible now.

And for the first time—

Hakuro felt resistance.

The buzzer hadn't sounded yet.

But the message already had.

This wasn't domination anymore.

It was a war of endurance.

And the second quarter wasn't finished deciding who would break first.

The ball returned to Ryu's hands with thirty-eight seconds left on the clock.

The noise in the arena didn't rise.

It held.

That was worse.

Ryu dribbled once.

Twice.

His red aura flickered—not flaring, not restrained. Uneasy.

Yuuto lowered his stance, eyes sharp, refusing to give ground. He didn't reach. Didn't bite. He waited.

Ryu moved first.

A hard drive left—Yuuto slid. A sudden stop—Yuuto stayed upright. Ryu tried to explode past him, shoulder brushing past ribs—

—and felt resistance.

Yuuto's feet were there.

Again.

Ryu clicked his tongue in irritation.

He pulled the ball back out, scanning.

Hiroto cut.

Marcus followed.

Ren set a screen.

Marcus fought through it, teeth clenched, refusing the switch.

Ryu hesitated.

That half-second stretched.

The shot clock ticked down.

Eight.

Seven.

Ryu attacked anyway.

He rose for the pull-up—

Yuuto leapt.

Not to block.

To contest space.

The ball left Ryu's hand at a sharper angle than he wanted.

Clang.

The rebound bounced high.

Bodies collided.

Hands reached.

Hiroto rose above the chaos, fingers closing around the ball like a vice.

No second jump.

No wasted motion.

He kicked it back out immediately.

Minato caught.

Shot clock reset.

Hakuro didn't rush.

They spread the floor again, but something had changed.

Ryu glanced at Hiroto.

Hiroto met his eyes—and gave a small shake of his head.

Not now.

Ryu exhaled sharply, then nodded.

They ran a safer set.

Ren sealed inside.

The entry pass came clean.

Two points.

With twelve seconds left, Seiryō rushed their possession.

Yuuto drove, drew contact, kicked out—

Marcus shot.

The buzzer sounded as the ball arced.

Clang.

Missed.

The quarter ended not with celebration—

But with breath held.

Players stood still for a beat, chests heaving, sweat dripping onto hardwood.

No one spoke.

The scoreboard glowed above them, numbers close enough to matter.

As they turned toward their benches, Hiroto walked past Marcus.

"Good defense," he said quietly.

Marcus looked back, eyes burning.

"…I'm not done."

Hiroto nodded once.

"Neither am I."

The second quarter wasn't over yet.

But the battle lines were drawn.

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