The scoreboard burned overhead.
96–84. Vorpal lead.
The clock flashed 1:00.
The gym was no longer just noise. It was thunder and silence mixed together. Every breath from the benches, every gasp from the fans, every squeak of sneakers on polished wood — all of it felt suspended in the air.
Two guards stood opposite one another, drenched in sweat, lungs burning, legs heavy yet unyielding.
Ethan Albarado.
Darius Coleman.
They didn't blink.
The ball was checked in. Vorpal's possession.
Lucas inbounded from the sideline, eyes darting nervously at the Piedmont defense tightening like a vice. Ethan stepped forward, hand raised.
The ball smacked into his palm.
Darius was already there. No space. No air. Just pressure.
"(One minute,)" Ethan thought, his heart pounding in rhythm with the clock. "(I can't just protect the lead. I need to bury them.)"
Darius' grin was faint but sharp, the kind a warrior flashes when he smells blood.
