Whoosh!
Sung Wo's whistle sliced through the night silence, sharp and impartial, like the slash of a knife. The sound echoed off the walls of the surrounding houses, making even the most cynical spectators in their leather jackets flinch. What hung in the air wasn't the tension of a sporting start, but something else—thick, sticky, like tar. Not the spirit of competition, but the spirit of gambling and bets.
Hong Ren, standing at the jump ball circle at the center, seemed the calmest person in the universe. His dark eyes, devoid of any sparkle, were fixed on the leather sphere in the referee's hands. Not on the opponents' faces, not on the hoop—only on the ball.
Every muscle in his short, flexible body was relaxed, yet ready to coil like a spring. Inside, however, a different storm raged—not nervousness, but a chemical hunger, a craving for that very feeling of absolute control he had experienced under the influence of the substance.
This game wasn't just a game. It was a chance to feel like the god of coordinates again, and victory—the key to a dose that would drown out the creeping withdrawal. The anticipation, skillfully stoked by Ming You, had dulled it, turning it into an itchy, aggressive desire.
Opposite him, chest puffed out, stood Jen Ryu. His breathing was loud, whistling, as if blacksmith's bellows were working in his lungs. His eyes, burning with blind fury, were fixed not on the ball, but on Hong Ren's face, trying to bore a hole through it. He looked not like an athlete at the start, but like a bull seeing a red flag.
Beside him, adopting a rational defensive stance, stood frozen Mei Yu. His face was a stone mask, but a thin line of tension along his jaw betrayed titanic calculation. He was already mentally calculating trajectories, probabilities, trying to find some kind of footing in this absurdly "disadvantageous" position: one against five.
"Come on, Hong! Tear them to shreds!" Jung Ho barked from the bench. His own, carefully concealed withdrawal tremor subsided for a second, replaced by a burning desire to see the first, crushing strike.
"Yeah, bounce, you ball, not like a little bitch!" Lu Shen cackled with nervous, shrill laughter, jerking his leg in time with an invisible tremor in his own body. "Show these upstarts who's boss! Ha! Although... damn, winter is cold..."
He muttered the last phrase under his breath, shuddering.
Hong Ren did not dignify them with a response. His world had narrowed to the ball and the circle.
Sung Wo, his face expressing indifference to everything happening, took a brief look at both players and tossed the ball straight up.
Jen Ryu exploded. He lunged from his spot, putting all his rage and physical power into the jump. It wasn't a technical center's jump—it was a detonation. He slapped the ball with such force it seemed he wanted not to tip it, but to flatten it.
Thwack!
The sound was dull, heavy. The ball, knocked off its trajectory, spun wildly and flew... not towards Jen Ryu's teammates, but straight to the edge of the circle, right where Hong Ren stood. The crude, uncontrolled force had backfired on the aggressor.
"What kind of cheap circus is this?!" Lu Shen squealed, grabbing his head in comical horror, but sparks danced in his eyes. "Catch it, Hong, catch the gift!"
"Shut up, clown," Haru Lin hissed through clenched teeth, not taking his cold gaze off the court. His fingers nervously fiddled with the edge of his jacket. "Though... a good start. Didn't mess up."
On the newcomers' side, Xiao Li helplessly slumped his shoulders. The other two players exchanged glances. Mei Yu only pressed his lips even tighter. Jen Ryu, landing, punched his own thigh in fury.
"Damn! That's just... ridiculous!" he shouted, but his anger was already switching to the next target—to Hong Ren, who had already softly caught the ball, cradling it against his chest.
Hong Ren didn't immediately rush towards the hoop. He froze for a split second, feeling the rough leather of the ball, absorbing the crowd noise, the shadows of the streetlights, the positions of the five figures in front of him. His brain, honed by the substance and his own nature, began constructing a model:
Jen Ryu. Standing right in front of me, like an enraged bull. Won't let me into the center, that's clear. Mei Yu is lurking on the right—sly, waiting to cut me off on the wing. I feel his gaze, cold and calculating. And those three behind... I sense their fear, their uncertainty. They aren't defenders, they're just filling space, their eyes darting around. Breathe, focus. The web seems tight, but there are always gaps. Always.
He began to dribble. Not fast, not aggressive, but low and rhythmic. He moved forward, not slowing his dribble pace, forcing the defenders to backpedal towards their three-point line.
"So, waiting for a magic trick? Is he gonna hypnotize them with that tapping?" Lu Shen drawled sarcastically, fidgeting in place.
Jen Ryu, unable to bear it, rushed forward, trying to apply pressure. His movement was crude and straightforward. In response, Hong Ren didn't execute a sharp crossover, but a smooth, almost careless move—a hesitation dribble. He froze on his right foot, rolling the ball back to himself, as if about to stop and pass into empty space. Jen Ryu's momentum carried him half a step forward. That was enough.
Hong Ren exploded forward from a low start. The ball, as if glued, moved with him. Jen Ryu, trying to recover, lunged sideways, spreading his legs wide. And then Hong Ren, almost without looking, slipped the ball between his opponent's spread legs—a clean, humiliating nutmeg.
The ball rolled out the other side, and Hong Ren, like a shadow, ran around the stunned Jen Ryu and scooped it up.
"Holy shit!" Lu Shen exhaled, his eyes now genuinely wide. Even his internal tremor quieted for a second before the purity of the execution.
"BRAVO!" Jung Ho boomed, jumping up from the bench. His face was twisted with delight mixed with obsession. "THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!"
"Mo-ther-fuuuucker!" Jen Ryu roared, turning around. The humiliation burned him hotter than any flame. His face flushed crimson. "I'll tear you apart!"
Hong Ren was already speeding towards the hoop. But one fake-out wasn't victory. Mei Yu, coolly assessing the situation, cut off his direct path, taking up position under the basket. Xiao Li and the second player timidly shifted from the flanks. A temporary trap was formed.
Hong Ren, without slowing down, drove straight at Mei Yu. Three steps from a collision, he abruptly changed rhythm, took a step back behind the ball—a step-back. The defenders lunged forward. That's what he was waiting for. Instantly, not giving them time to recover, he ripped the ball forward, bursting through the narrow gap between Mei Yu and Xiao Li. Bodies collided; Hong Ren swayed from a hit to his shoulder but kept his balance. The ball, however, from the impact or the sharp movement, slipped out of control and rolled towards the sideline.
"Knock it out! Knock it out!" someone from the newcomers shouted.
Jen Ryu, like an enraged bull, was charging from behind, hoping to scoop up the ball. Hong Ren seemed to have lost it. But his reactions were working overtime. He made a desperate lunge, slapped the ball with one hand just as it was about to touch the asphalt, flipped it up a centimeter, caught it mid-air, and, already falling out of bounds, flung it back onto the court in front of himself, managing to push off in time to stay in play. It all took a fraction of a second. A circus trick under the murmur of the crowd.
"Bravo! Take it now!" Lu Shen yelled, but now without sarcasm, with genuine excitement, momentarily forgetting his own 'withdrawal'.
Hong Ren, now right at the three-point line, found himself face-to-face with the hoop. In front of him—only Mei Yu, who had taken a solid stance, ready to take the charge. Jen Ryu, panting, was recovering his position from behind.
Hong Ren froze. He squeezed the ball, his gaze running from the hoop to Mei Yu's face. He made a slight shooting motion, forcing the defender to jump. But it was a fake. He slid under the jumping Mei Yu, taking one single, long stride right under the basket.
Now, mere centimeters separated him from four points. Jen Ryu, late but undeterred, jumped in desperation from behind, trying to block the shot from above.
And Hong Ren shot. Not powerfully, not spectacularly. Short, technical, off the glass. The ball, without much arc, left his hands almost straight and softly kissed the backboard right above the rim.
Tap.
And dropped through the net. Soundlessly, almost gently.
Sung Wo's whistle marked the successful attack.
On the scoreboard held by one of the 'spectators', the numbers jerked. The newcomers' team: 0. Hong Ren: 4. His close-range shot, multiplied by four.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Jen Ryu bellowed, his cry full not so much of anger as of animal incomprehension. He snatched the ball from under the hoop and slammed it onto the asphalt with force. "Four points?! From one shot?! This is some bullshit trickery!" He turned to the referee, to Taek Jung, to Ming You. "Did you see that?! This is fucking bullshit, not rules!"