Quarter Break.
Rakuzan 21 – Horizon 11.
The buzzer thundered like a war drum.
Rakuzan jogged back to their bench, heads high, voices loud—dominant.
Reiji bumped shoulders with Asahi, the ace, who just winked like he hadn't even begun to sweat.
Their body language said it all:
We're not just winning. We're teaching.
We're not just playing. We're dictating.
"We own this court."
On the Horizon bench?
Silence.
Not the kind that signals defeat.
The kind that listens.
The kind that sharpens.
Coach Tsugawa didn't scream. He didn't throw his clipboard or curse the refs. His voice was calm—deadly calm.
"They're not better than you," he said. "They're just ahead of you." He pointed at the scoreboard. "Ten points is nothing if you make them play your game."
But all eyes were already shifting.
To Dirga.
Because even with the game slipping, the floor still belonged to him.
Not because he scored.
Not because he ran fast.
But because he saw everything.
Every hesitation.
