The scoreboard flashed Easton 92 – Seiryō 92.
Two minutes and thirteen seconds left.
The crowd was on their feet—some screaming, some praying, all holding their breath.
The ball belonged to Easton.
Orson Kuga stood at the baseline, palms open, breathing slowly. His teammates—lined up across the court. They were the giants of Easton, each one taller, heavier, sharper. Yet, in that moment, all eyes seemed to center on the smallest among them.
Orson… the shortest player on the court.
The one the announcers barely mentioned.
The one everyone underestimated—until now.
"Ball in!" the referee called.
Sho slapped the ball into Orson's hands. He didn't hesitate.
Dribble. Step. Shift.
Orson moved like a whisper cutting through wind. His steps were small but sharp, every bounce of the ball syncing with the pulse of his heart. He feinted left—Marcus slid to cover—but the instant Marcus blinked, Orson switched rhythm, pulling back and fading into a jumper.
Swish.
94–92.
