The scoreboard blinked 58–52.
Easton still held the lead, but the pulse of Seiryō's team had grown stronger. Sweat dripped from foreheads, lungs burned, yet the energy in the gym had shifted. The first half had proven something: Marcus's "Pulse" could rise to meet the Watchtower—but now the question loomed.
Could they sustain it?
The whistle pierced through the air. Third quarter.
Easton inbounded cleanly, their movement sharp and mechanical.
Sho Amakusa caught the ball near half-court, chin up, eyes cutting through the defense like light through glass. He was calm—terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that spoke of complete control, of someone who had already seen every outcome before it happened.
"Formation Sigma," Sho said quietly, almost conversationally.
But that one word was enough.
