…
Onitsuka had drawn first blood.
The rim was still shaking when Midorima took the inbound pass from Takao. He didn't even look fazed – just adjusted his glasses, calm as a surgeon.
Takao dribbled across half court with his usual grin, calling, "Let's show them how we do it, Shin-chan!"
No fancy plays. No picks. Just movement. Shutoku's rhythm was all about precision – geometry and patience.
The orange jerseys spread out, forming their familiar shape. Takao passed to Kimura, who swung it to Miyaji, who quickly kicked it back to Takao.
Onitsuka's defense rotated smoothly, not pressing – just watching.
Then it happened. Midorima slipped free for half a second, curling around the top of the arc, beyond the three point line.
Takao's eyes lit up. "Now!"
The pass cut through the air – perfect spin, perfect speed. Midorima caught it in motion, his feet already aligned, wrist rising.
No hesitation. No thought.
The release was pure poetry. The ball traced that familiar, impossible arc – so high it nearly brushed the ceiling – before slicing through the net with a soft swish.
Away 2 – Home 3.
The crowd roared, but Onitsuka didn't even blink. Tyrone simply caught the inbound and passed it off casually.
From the bench, Daniel didn't move either. His expression stayed unreadable. He knew what his team was doing – testing the waters. For the first quarter, they weren't meant to win. They were meant to study.
Ector advanced the ball, quiet and steady. Tyrone trailed behind him, whispering, "We stickin' to the plan?"
"Yeah," Ector muttered. "Observe first. Eat later."
Jesus stretched along the wing, barely jogging. "Ay, perfecto. Then I can chill a bit, sí?"
Adrian positioned at the high post. Deng loomed at the baseline. Their movements were simple – deliberate. Almost lazy.
To the crowd, it looked like Shutoku had control.
It was the third play of the game. Ector stood just beyond the three-point line, dribbling with one hand, body loose but eyes locked. The crowd buzzed – nobody quite sure what this foreigner would do next.
Then, suddenly, the ball left his hands – a fast, low pass to Tyrone on the wing. Without breaking stride, Ector darted forward, cutting through the middle.
Tyrone drifted sideways, dragging his defender with him, creating that half-second window in the paint. He tossed the ball back, quick and sharp – a bullet pass.
Ector caught it mid-stride. Kimura was already waiting, bracing for another highlight dunk, convinced he had timed it right this time.
He hadn't.
Ector rose – higher, faster, cleaner. His knees were at Kimura's shoulders before the Japanese forward even left the ground. The contact was inevitable – Ector's hips slammed forward, legs wide like a spread-eagle silhouette out of a poster.
For a moment, the whole gym seemed to stop.
Then – BOOM. The dunk detonated through the rim, rattling the entire backboard. Kimura crumpled to the floor.
Ector hung from the rim for a heartbeat, the chain net trembling around him. When he dropped down, his chest was heaving, his veins like cords under his skin.
He looked down at Kimura sprawled beneath him and roared, voice echoing through the stunned gym: "Too small! Way too small! I own this paint!"
He flexed, pounding his chest once – primal, electric.
The crowd erupted, half in awe, half in outrage. A few Shutoku students on the bench leaned toward each other, whispering. "What… what did he say?"
A first-year who knew a little English translated quietly. "'Too small…' he's saying Kimura senpai is weak."
The words rippled through the bench. Miyaji clenched his jaw. Kimura, still sitting on the floor, smacked the court with his palm. Even Midorima's composure cracked – his brows twitched behind his glasses.
Takao whistled softly. "Man, that's cold."
Daniel just sat back and muttered under his breath, "Good. Let them get angry. The moment emotion enters the game, we already win."
Away 4 – Home 3.
Shutoku gathered under their own rim, the echo of Ector's dunk still vibrating through the gym. Kimura snatched the ball off the floor, face burning red.
"Give it to me next play," he snapped, voice rough. "I'm taking that back."
Takao blinked. "Huh? Kimura-senpai–"
"Just do it!" Kimura barked, his voice cracking with fury. Even Midorima's head turned slightly, green bangs sliding across his forehead.
"You're letting emotion control you," Midorima said coolly, pushing his glasses up. "He baited you, Kimura. Don't act like a fool."
Kimura shot him a glare. "You can keep shooting from half-court all you want, Midorima. I'll handle this my way."
He didn't wait for a reply. He was already storming up the court, veins pulsing in his forearms.
Takao sighed, dribbling as they advanced. "Man… this is gonna be bad," he muttered, before scanning the floor.
Onitsuka dropped back, calm – too calm. Ector crouched low at the arc, eyes locked on Kimura like a predator sizing prey.
Takao crossed half-court, feeding Midorima once to draw attention. Then he cut toward the middle, drawing Ector just enough off-balance before snapping the ball to Kimura on the right side.
"Now!" Kimura roared, taking one dribble and exploding toward the rim.
It looked clean – perfect even. He rose, muscles straining, ball in both hands, ready to end the humiliation with a dunk of his own… until a black blur shot across his vision.
Ector. He appeared out of nowhere, timing immaculate, body cutting through the air like a knife.
THWACK!
The block echoed like thunder. The ball ricocheted off the backboard and flew halfway to half-court. Kimura landed awkwardly, disbelief written across his face.
Ector landed with a thud and pointed right at him.
"Your dumb ass really doesn't learn," he barked, voice sharp as steel. "You're five inches too short to dunk on me!"
The gym went silent for a split second before the benches erupted.
"What did he say?" someone on Shutoku's bench asked, leaning forward.
The same first-year from before whispered, almost wincing as he translated. "He said Kimura senpai is… too short to dunk on him and that he is dumb."
"What!?" one of the subs shot up. "That bastard!"
Kimura's face twisted – a cocktail of shame and rage. He clenched his fists, breathing heavy.
Takao ran up and grabbed his arm. "Senpai! Hey! Calm down! Don't fall for it, he's—"
"I don't care!" Kimura barked, shaking him off. "He wants a fight? He'll get one!"
Midorima exhaled sharply, irritation visible even through his calm exterior. "Pathetic," he muttered, turning toward the baseline to receive the inbound. "Don't you understand it? They're playing chess, and you're still trying to throw punches."
Meanwhile, Ector turned and walked back toward the Onitsuka side, not even looking back. He just raised a finger to his lips – a silent shhh toward the crowd.
The message was clear. The gym had gone from awe to tension – and Onitsuka was dictating every note of it.
The next eight minutes rolled by like thunderclouds gathering over calm seas. Shutoku weathered the storm – barely.
Midorima's shots were the only thing keeping them upright. He caught, turned, and released with that robotic precision that made him a legend. Net after net his form never broke once.
Every time Onitsuka's defense shifted, he readjusted, always one step ahead of the hand in his face. By the middle of the quarter, he had already drained four threes – all textbook, all perfect.
But Onitsuka didn't bite.
They didn't send double teams. They didn't close out with desperation. Daniel's plan was clear from the sideline – no hand waves, no panic. Just study him. Every shot Midorima took was data: his release time, his comfort spots, how deep he dared.
Tyrone and Adrian boxed out calmly after every make or miss. Ector and Jesus whispered between plays, cracking jokes. Grigori leaned against the scorer's table, smirking. They looked more like men watching film than kids losing a game.
By the last seconds of the quarter, Shutoku led 21–17.
Takao dribbled up, looked at the clock, then at Midorima.
"Go," he said.
Midorima caught it just past half court. One step, one breath – release.
The gym froze.
Swish.
The buzzer screamed as the ball dropped through the net. Shutoku's side erupted – benches standing, students shouting. For a moment, even the air vibrated with pride.
Midorima lowered his hand slowly, expression composed but eyes sharp. He had expected to see despair on Onitsuka's faces. Instead – laughter.
Tyrone clapped twice. "Yo! Half court! Okay, respect!"
Jesus nodded, grinning. "Nah, man got range. I ain't even mad."
Ector leaned on his knees, smiling like he'd just seen something entertaining. "Yeah, he's tough. Real nice form," he said.
Shutoku's bench exchanged uneasy looks.
"Why are they so calm?" one whispered. "Don't they realize we're up?"
Miyaji frowned. "That point guard – Troy – he's dangerous. Like thunder, man. Just cracks outta nowhere."
Kimura rubbed his jaw. "He's like Kagami Taiga. Same build. Same fire."
Takao shook his head, still staring at the court. "Not the same."
Midorima turned slightly. "Oh?"
Takao pushed his headband up. "Kagami jumps high from anywhere. That's his thing – raw spring. But Troy? He's faster. He builds speed, and that's what launches him. He doesn't just jump – he propels."
Midorima's eyes narrowed. "Acceleration over explosion…"
"That's the point," Takao said. "He uses his drive like a slingshot. That's why his takeoffs look insane. If we cut the lane, we cut his wings."
Ōtsubo nodded once, curt. "Then we clog the middle. Force him outside."
What they didn't know – that was exactly what Daniel wanted. The first quarter had gone according to script. Ector's gravity was now undeniable. Every Shutoku defender's eyes would follow him the next time he touched the ball.
And when they did – Onitsuka would show their real hand.
~~~~~
Daniel's tone was cool and surgical as the boys huddled up. "New assignments. Tyrone, you're on Midorima now. Stick to him like glue – no rhythm, no air, no daylight. Jesus, make him move on the other end."
Tyrone nodded once, a quiet "Got it, Coach," before walking to the floor.
From the first inbound, Shutoku realized something was different.
Midorima, usually calm and free to roam, suddenly had a shadow – a long, silent, 6'6" shadow with arms that seemed to blot out the light, his 6'9'' wingspan put to good use.
Every step he took, Tyrone was there – body-to-body, hand to face, cutting every clean angle. The first shot came early in the quarter: Midorima curled off a pass, jumped, released–
Thud.
The ball clanged off the front rim. The crowd gasped. Midorima rarely missed cleanly.
Tyrone's long hand had brushed his sightline – not a block, not even contact, just presence. Enough to disrupt the perfect rhythm.
Daniel smiled faintly on the sideline. Exactly as planned.
The ball bounced high, and Ector was already gone – snatching it midair and bursting forward like a streak of lightning.
Shutoku scrambled back, but he was too fast. He slowed just at the free-throw line – a small hesitation dribble, a half-pause that froze the defenders. Just like Daniel taught him. Then he exploded again, slicing through for an easy layup.
Two points.
Next possession, same pattern. Midorima tried again from deep – Tyrone's hand contested high, forcing another miss. The rebound tipped off Ōtsubo's fingers… right into Adrian's hands.
He flipped it instantly to Ector, who was already sprinting down the center. Deng thundered alongside him like a locomotive.
Ector read the court in an instant – one defender in front, another closing in from the side. A quick feint, and all eyes locked on him.
He smiled. Then flicked the ball with one hand – a perfect pass to Deng.
BOOM.
The dunk shook the gym.
From then on, Onitsuka dictated everything.
Daniel had quietly pulled Deng out of the paint whenever Midorima had the ball, stationing him closer to half-court to anticipate rebounds or long passes. The moment Midorima released a shot, Deng was already gone – a seven-foot-one blur sprinting the lane like a gazelle.
Shutoku's rhythm started breaking down. Takao couldn't find angles. Kimura's midrange was swallowed by Adrian's reach.
Still, Shutoku managed a few scores through persistence – Takao cutting in for floaters, Miyaji hitting a contested jumper, Ōtsubo forcing one in off the glass. But Onitsuka's offense was relentless.
Whenever Ector saw four defenders collapse toward him, he didn't force it – he drove deep, baited the swarm, then slipped the pass to Deng for another dunk or simple layup. It looked effortless. Ruthless.
By the final minute of the quarter, the scoreboard told the story:
Away 42 – Home 35.
But Midorima wasn't done. Takao inbounded him the ball with five seconds left – near their own basket. Tyrone wasn't there waiting for him at the half-court.
Midorima took a jumper, shoulders squared. The release was perfect – high arc, flawless spin.
Swish.
Buzzer.
The crowd erupted again. Full court – clean.
But the noise didn't shake Onitsuka. Ector smirked, giving a small nod toward Midorima. "Guy's got range," he said, breathing easy.
Tyrone chuckled. "Respect. But that's all he's got."
Jesus added with a grin, "Let him have his movie moment. We're still up."
Onitsuka walked calmly back to the bench, not celebrating, not anxious – just collected.
Across the court, Takao wiped sweat from his brow and glanced at Midorima. "He's fast," he said quietly. "Too fast. He's like… thunder. You hear it only after it's hit you."
Midorima nodded grimly. "Feels like my ex-teammate… that monster."
…