The ten-minute halftime was a study in contrasts. The Dasmariñas locker room was a scene of controlled, weary confidence. They had executed a high-risk, high-reward plan and were up by 16 points. The mood was one of grim satisfaction.
Across the hall, the Cebu City locker room was an inferno. Emon Jacob, the "Machine," had seized control, his "waterboy" speech transforming his four terrified, passive teammates from passengers into a furious, cohesive fist, ready to fight not for him, but with him.
In the Dasmariñas huddle, Coach Gutierrez made the decision that would haunt him for the rest of the season.
"Starters, you're out."
Tristan, Marco, Daewoo, Ian, and Cedrick all looked up, their faces a mask of confusion.
"Coach?" Tristan said, his voice tight. "It's only 16. That's Emon Jacob. He could erase that in three minutes."
"He's gassed, Herrera," Coach G said, his voice firm, projecting a confidence he may not have fully felt. "And so are you. Your 'Dog Pound' strategy was perfect, but it was a 10-minute sprint. You're breathing heavy. We have a 16-point cushion. We have a deep bench. We are going to rest our dogs, and we are going to let our second unit bleed them. This is a game of attrition. We just won the first half. Now, we win the war by preserving our main forces."
He was making a logical, strategic decision. He was coaching for a tournament, not just one game. He was underestimating the sheer, transformative power of Emon Jacob's will.
"Mark, John, Joseph, Joshua, Felix," the coach barked. "You're in."
The five reserves—the unit that had mopped up the CDO game—looked at each other, their faces a mixture of terror and fierce pride.
"Your job is simple," Coach G commanded. "Hold the line. Don't be heroes. Bleed the clock. Play our defense. Make them work for 24 seconds, every possession. Do not let them run. You give us ten minutes, you hold this lead... we win. Go."
Tristan and the starters took their seats on the bench, a deep, gnawing unease settling in their stomachs. They had just handed the keys to their entire season to the second string... against a wounded, furious god.
Aiden, in the stands, saw the lineup and his blood ran cold. "No," he whispered, clutching his crutches. "Coach, what are you doing? Don't... don't disrespect him. Don't disrespect the Machine."
Start of the Third Quarter: Dasmariñas 36 — Cebu City 20
DASMARIÑAS LINEUP: Mark (PG), John (SG), Joseph (SF), Joshua (PF), Felix (C)
CEBU LINEUP: Jacob (SG), Abella (PG), Ramos (C), Chavez (PF), Santos (SF)
The buzzer sounded. The Cebu starters walked onto the court. They were not the same team. Their eyes were different. They were cold, angry, and they were in lockstep.
Abella, the point guard who had been terrified of his own shadow, took the inbound. He didn't look at Jacob. He didn't look at his coach. He attacked.
He drove hard at Mark Herras. Mark, a solid defender, was pushed back on his heels, surprised by the aggression. Abella got into the paint, forcing Felix Tan to rotate. Abella didn't panic. He just went up, strong, absorbing the contact, and hit a tough floater.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 36 — Cebu 22
"Okay," Tristan said from the bench, his hands clasped tightly. "Okay, they scored. It's fine. Settle down, Mark. Run the clock."
Mark Herras brought the ball up. And Cebu hit them. They came out in a full-court, trapping, chaotic press. It wasn't the "Dog Pound's" methodical denial. This was a street fight.
"Press! Press!" Mark yelled.
Abella and Santos trapped him in the corner. Mark pivoted, looking for an outlet. He threw a high, looping pass toward John Manalo.
Emon Jacob, who had been lurking at half-court, uncoiled. He leaped, his 6'6" frame and massive wingspan swallowing the pass.
Steal.
Fast break. Jacob. 1-on-0.
He didn't dunk it. He didn't lay it in. He jogged to the rim, laid it in softly, and jogged back, his face a mask of cold, deadly calm. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
Score: Dasmariñas 36 — Cebu 24
"That's a 4-0 run," Marco said, his voice a nervous squeak. "Coach, this press is... they're not ready for this."
Coach G just stood there, his arms crossed. "Hold the line."
Mark Herras was terrified. He managed to get the ball inbounds to John. John was immediately doubled by Chavez and Santos—the "passengers" who were now playing like rabid dogs. John, a shooter, not a ball-handler, tried to dribble out of it. He lost the ball.
Another steal.
This time, it was Abella who got the loose ball. He immediately fired it to Jacob. Jacob, seeing the defense scrambled, launched a 26-foot, transition three-pointer.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 36 — Cebu 27
A 7-0 run in 80 seconds. The 16-point lead was cut to 9. The arena was a screaming, shaking mass of humanity.
"TIMEOUT, DASMARIÑAS!" Coach G roared, his face ashen. He had to stop the bleeding.
In the huddle, the five reserves were shaking, their eyes wide with panic.
"I... I couldn't see," Mark stammered. "They were just... everywhere."
"They're playing with rage," Joseph Rubio said, his chest heaving. "They're not... they're not the same team we saw on film!"
"CALM. DOWN," Coach G yelled, grabbing Mark by the shoulders. "They hit you. You're staggered. So what? You're still up by nine. Get one good possession. Break the press, run the clock, and get a layup. One basket. That's all I want. Hold the line."
Tristan and the starters were on their feet by the bench. "We're warm, Coach! Put us in!"
"Sit down, Herrera!" Coach G snapped. "This is their moment. They have to learn."
They inbounded. They broke the press, just barely. Mark Herras, his hands shaking, walked the ball up. He was trying to follow orders. Run the clock.
He dribbled... 20... 19...
The Cebu defense was a nightmare. They weren't just guarding. They were hitting. Chavez, the power forward, set a bone-jarring, illegal screen on John Manalo, and the ref swallowed his whistle.
Mark, with the clock at 10, tried to run a play. He passed to Felix. Felix, not a creator, passed back. The offense was stagnant, a picture of pure fear.
The shot clock buzzer sounded. A 24-second violation. Turnover.
The crowd roared. It was a turnover that felt like a dunk.
"He's... he's too proud," Tristan said, a horrible realization dawning on him. "Coach G... he's too proud to sub. He's letting them drown."
Jacob didn't touch the ball. He didn't have to. The 'fist' was in motion.
Abella, his confidence now nuclear, drove hard at Mark. Mark cut him off. Abella kicked it to Chavez in the corner. Chavez, who had been a non-factor, rose up for the three.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 36 — Cebu 30
The lead was six. A 10-0 run.
Mark Herras inbounded the ball. He was immediately trapped. He threw a desperate, cross-court pass.
Stolen. Again. By Emon Jacob.
Jacob. Fast break. 1-on-0.
This time, he didn't lay it in. He rose, his 6'6" frame uncoiling, and threw down a vicious, one-handed, windmill dunk that was a statement of pure, arrogant, and beautiful dominance.
The sound of the rim echoed like a cannon shot.
Score: Dasmariñas 36 — Cebu 32
"COACH!" Tristan was screaming now, on the court, by the huddle. "PUT US IN! THEY'RE BROKEN! PUT US IN!"
Coach Gutierrez was just staring, his face a mask of stone, watching his experiment, his arrogance, crumble in real-time. He was frozen.
"GET IN THE GAME!" he finally roared at his starters.
But it was too late. The refs wouldn't allow the substitution until the next dead ball. And the ball was live.
Mark Herras, his eyes brimming with tears of panic, inbounded the ball. He got it back. He just... he just curled up. He was terrified. He dribbled into the corner, into a trap, and just... lost the ball. He just... stopped dribbling.
Turnover.
"No..." Marco whispered, his hands on his head.
Loose ball. Picked up by Ramos, the Cebu center. He saw Emon Jacob, who was being face-guarded by John Manalo.
Jacob didn't call for the ball. He just... went. He sprinted, shoving John out of the way, and cut to the basket.
Ramos threw the lob.
Jacob, with John draped all over him, caught the ball in mid-air and hammered it home. An alley-oop. And a foul.
WHISTLE.
The basket was good. And-one.
John Manalo fell to the floor, defeated.
Score: Dasmariñas 36 — Cebu 34
The game was stopped. The substitution was finally called.
The five starters—Tristan, Marco, Daewoo, Gab, and Ian—ran to the scorer's table, a furious, desperate rescue squad.
The five reserves walked off the court. Mark Herras was openly weeping, his face buried in his jersey. Joseph and Joshua looked like they had seen a ghost. Felix and John just stared at the floor, their confidence, their souls, shattered.
They had not just lost the lead. They had been broken.
Emon Jacob stepped to the free-throw line, the arena a vortex of noise. He was staring at the new unit, at Tristan. He smiled. A cold, dead, shark's smile.
He took a breath.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 36 — Cebu 35
It had been a 15-0 run in less than three minutes. A total, systemic, psychological collapse.
"Welcome back," Jacob said to Tristan as he walked past him. "Your turn."
"Tristan!" Coach G yelled, his voice hoarse. "CALM IT DOWN! ONE BASKET!"
Tristan took the inbound. His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From pure, unadulterated rage. His Gold Floor General skill was screaming at him, the court a map of his own team's panic.
He held the ball. He let the frantic energy settle.
"RUN 'FIST'!" he commanded.
He dribbled, his 80-Handle a comfort. He drove hard. He was met by Abella, who was now playing with a new, arrogant swagger. Tristan didn't care. He spun. He was met by the rotating center.
He was trapped.
He fired a pass to Marco. Marco, guarded by Jacob, was smothered.
He passed to Gab. Gab, guarded by Chavez, was bodied up.
The Cebu defense was... it was different. It wasn't just Jacob. The other four "passengers," who had been awakened by Emon's speech, were now playing with a new, furious confidence. They were no longer role players. They were a team.
The shot clock was at 3. Tristan had to take it. He drove, was fouled hard by Abella.
WHISTLE.
Two shots. He had stopped the bleeding, but just barely.
Tristan, his mind a cold void, stepped to the line.
First shot... swish.
Second shot... swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 38 — Cebu 35
Jacob walked the ball up. Daewoo was on him, his defense just as tenacious, but Jacob was... he was better. He wasn't just a scorer anymore. He was a leader.
He ran a pick-and-roll with his center, Ramos. Ian and Daewoo switched. Jacob now had the 6'6" Ian on him.
He smiled. He took a step-back... another three-pointer.
Swish.
Score: Dasmariñas 38 — Cebu 38
Tie game. The 16-point lead was gone.
Tristan brought the ball up. He was desperate. He ran a play for Marco. Marco got the ball, but his defender, Santos, was playing with a new physicality. He bumped Marco, forced him baseline. Marco's fadeaway was short.
Cebu pushed. Jacob. Fast break. He was unstoppable. He drove. He was fouled by Gab.
Two more free throws.
He hit them both.
Score: Dasmariñas 38 — Cebu 40
Cebu had the lead. The collapse was complete.
The rest of the quarter was a nightmare. Dasmariñas, now playing shell-shocked and desperate, was committing fouls. Cebu, who had been a fumbling, nervous wreck, was now playing with a smooth, arrogant confidence.
Tristan tried to answer. He hit a tough jumper. 40-40.
Jacob came back. He drew a foul on Daewoo. Two free throws. 40-42.
Marco, forcing it, drove and got his shot blocked by Ramos, who had been awakened.
Cebu came back. Abella, the point guard, hit a corner three-pointer, his first of the game, off a perfect pass from Jacob. 40-45.
Aiden, in the stands, just put his clipboard down. He couldn't watch. This was a tactical implosion of a magnitude he had never seen. Coach G's pride had cost them the game.
One minute left. Tristan, his team reeling, tried to make one last play. He drove, drew the entire Cebu defense, and with his Gold Floor General vision, he saw the only man open: Gab, at the top of the key.
He fired a perfect pass. Gab caught it. He was open. He shot it.
Clang. Back rim.
Emon Jacob grabbed the rebound.
Cebu held for the last shot. The ball was in Jacob's hands. The crowd was counting down.
Ten... nine... eight...
Daewoo was guarding him, his defense a masterpiece of futility.
Five... four... three...
Jacob, with Daewoo's hand literally in his face, rose up from 28 feet. It was an insane, arrogant, impossible shot.
The buzzer sounded as the ball was in the air.
Swish.
End of Third Quarter: Dasmariñas 40 — Cebu City 48
The scoreboard flashed the quarter's stats.
CEBU CITY: 28
DASMARIÑAS: 4
A 28-to-4 quarter. A 26-point swing.
Emon Jacob ran off the court, his arm raised, his face a mask of cold, arrogant triumph. He had scored 14 points in the quarter, but more importantly, he had unlocked his team.
The Dasmariñas players just stood there, shell-shocked, their hands on their hips, their faces blank with a despair that went beyond basketball.
They weren't just losing. They were being humiliated. They had been broken.
Tristan looked at his coach, who was staring at the scoreboard, his face ashen. The great tactician had made the one, fatal, unforgivable mistake.
He had underestimated the heart of a champion. And now, they had ten minutes to save their season from an 8-point deficit, against a team that had just become a god.