The fourth quarter began without noise.
No chants.
No cheers.
No restless murmurs.
The crowd—thousands strong—fell into an uneasy silence the moment Ryu touched the ball.
It wasn't fear.
It was recognition.
Ryu dribbled past half-court slowly. Not lazily. Not casually. Each bounce was deliberate, measured, landing in the same rhythm like a ticking metronome only he could hear.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The shot clock ticked.
Twenty-two.
Twenty-one.
Yuuto slid into his stance, knees bent, arms out. His eyes tracked the ball, then Ryu's shoulders, then his feet—trying to read something, anything.
But Ryu didn't attack.
He waited.
The red aura around him wasn't explosive like before. It didn't flare or pressure outward. It settled. Heavy. Dense. Like gravity itself had thickened around him.
"This is strange…" Marcus muttered from the wing.
Daniel didn't answer. His jaw was tight.
Ryu took one step to the left.
Yuuto mirrored.
Another dribble. Slower now.
Thump.
