The buzzer had long since died.
But the silence that followed wasn't rest, it was weight.
The scoreboard still glared in cruel honesty:
GODS — 92 | RAPTORS — 55.
The crowd didn't cheer. They stood, caught between awe and heartbreak, cameras trembling in hands that couldn't decide whether to capture or pray.
Bodies glistened under the pale light. The floor smelled of sweat and ozone — Zeus's aura had left the air ionized, metallic, almost holy.
Jalen's team stood in a thin line, heads bowed, eyes red.
They were beaten.
But not broken.
Coach Jenkins was the first to speak, voice hoarse.
"Line up."
No grand speech now. Just duty.
The Raptors moved, slow but deliberate, forming a line at half-court.
Across from them, the Gods waited, not standing so much as existing, motionless, their shadows taller than their forms.
Zeus stood in the center.
Ares crossed his arms, jaw loose with boredom.
Poseidon's gaze never wavered.
