The ball rests in Ethan Albarado's hands.
Not in motion.
Not attacked.
Just there, held like something inevitable.
The court has not caught up yet. The roar of the arena is still a wall of indistinct noise, but it might as well be silence. For a moment, the game exists only between three players:
Ethan.
Lucas.
Miho.
Ethan doesn't retreat.
He doesn't shake his head.
He doesn't smirk.
He doesn't even blink.
He simply draws in a breath slow and steady, like the air itself has weight and purpose.
Alright… Miho. You want to play on the level of identity?
Then watch me rewrite mine.
Lucas steps up beside him. No words leave his mouth. They've never needed them. Their rhythm is not spoken it's felt. Their connection doesn't begin on the court; it was born in defeat, fragments of dreams, repetition, and the silent promise:
We climb.
But before either of them moves
Miho shifts one foot.
Just a centimeter.
Just enough.
