Lucas rose.
Pulled up.
Three in rhythm, smooth as silk.
Splash.
The net hissed as the ball dropped through. The crowd detonated.
Vorpal 129 – Harbor 85.
The storm was suffocating.
Timeout Harbor.
Their huddle was broken. Players slumped, towels draped over their heads. Jet slammed his towel to the floor, face twisted in fury, but no one lifted their eyes to follow his rage. Dante's jaw was clenched so tight veins bulged in his neck. Skyline leaned over, hands on knees, sucking wind like he'd just run a marathon. Even Brick—Harbor's wall—sat hunched, shoulders sagging.
They weren't Harbor anymore.
They were wreckage.
Across the court, Vorpal's huddle burned like a second sun.
Ethan stood at the center, sweat dripping down his chin, but his eyes didn't waver. They burned sharper than fire, clearer than glass. Every word he spoke sliced through the noise, etched into the bones of his teammates.
