The buzzer blared, shaking the gym. Seiryō's bench exhaled in unison, sweat dripping from brows and foreheads. The scoreboard glowed 64–57, Easton still ahead, but the atmosphere had shifted. Marcus could feel it—his Pulse, the rhythm he had cultivated, flickering back into life, fragile but alive.
He wiped the sweat from his chin and met Yuuto's eyes. No words were necessary. A nod passed between them, unspoken trust. The floor was theirs to command again, at least for now.
Coach Aoyama's voice cut through the haze of noise. "Stay true to your rhythm. Don't fight their system—flow through it."
Marcus inhaled deeply, letting the words sink in. Flow. Not force. Control was useless if it suffocated his teammates.
The inbound whistle shrieked. Easton sent the ball over in a clean arc. Sho Amakusa caught it near half-court, calm as ever. His eyes scanned Seiryō like a predator, calculating and precise. But Marcus didn't flinch. He had Yuuto now.
