The ball bounced once.
Twice.
Yuuto steadied his breathing as he crossed half-court again, sweat clinging to his temples, heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the dribble. The noise in the arena hadn't faded—but it no longer overwhelmed him. It pressed in from all sides, a constant reminder that every possession now mattered.
Hakuro didn't press.
They didn't need to.
Ryu stood near the top of the key, relaxed posture, eyes calm, hands loose. He wasn't guarding space.
He was guarding possibility.
Marcus rotated toward the wing, rolling his shoulders as he did. His legs burned—not from fatigue alone, but from the tension of restraint. Every instinct screamed to attack harder, faster, to force something open.
But forcing it was how Hakuro punished you.
Shunjin hovered near the corner, glancing between Ren and Haruto, searching for a tell—anything that broke the symmetry of Hakuro's defense.
Nothing did.
"Same look," Shunjin muttered.
Yuuto nodded without looking. "Yeah."
