The next afternoon, they gathered at the Flowstate Gym out of habit. It was their second home, the cracked floorboards and faded lines a map of their history. There was no formal practice, just the need to be within those walls.
Bornok showed up late, again, with more pandesal. Riki brought terrible, bitter coffee that everyone drank anyway. They were tired, happy, and still buzzing with the residual energy of their championship. Teo stretched quietly in his usual corner, a pillar of calm presence. The rhythm of the ball bouncing, the easy silence between friends, the shared space—it was perfect.
Then the lights flickered. A common Manila brownout. But this was different. A stark, white light began to pour through the high windows, intensifying rapidly, bleaching the color from the world. The sound of the city outside vanished, swallowed by a profound silence.
Teo, reacting instinctively, turned and stepped forward, his 7'1 frame positioning itself between his teammates and the blinding light. He raised an arm, not in fear, but in a protective gesture. The light consumed everything—the gym, the sound, the very ground beneath their feet. There was no explosion, no violent wrenching. Just a clean, silent flash.
And then, they were gone.