The scoreboard glowed red: 18-6. Seven minutes into the first quarter, and Team A was getting their teeth kicked in.
Lucifer caught the inbound pass near the baseline, and immediately Number 23 was on him. Not just guarding—hunting. Full-court pressure, chest to chest, hands active, feet never stopping their rapid shuffle. The defensive intensity belonged in a playoff game, not a high school tryout.
Interesting.
Lucifer tested with a between-the-legs dribble, then a hesitation. Number 23 didn't even blink. His eyes stayed locked on Lucifer's midsection, reading hip movement instead of following the ball. Textbook.
A hard crossover. Number 23 slid with him, maintaining position. A jab step. Nothing. The kid was disciplined, patient, waiting for Lucifer to make the first real move.
Fine. Let's see what my teammates can do.
Lucifer whipped a pass to Kevin in the corner. Wide open, perfect catch-and-shoot opportunity. Kevin's form disintegrated under pressure—elbow flying out, guide hand rotating, the shot launching flat and hard. It clanged off the back rim.
Team B's center grabbed the board and immediately fired an outlet pass to Number 23, who was already sprinting up court. This had been the pattern for seven minutes: Team B ran everything through their star, Team A ran everything through chaos and prayer.
Lucifer picked up Number 23 at half-court, bodying him toward the sideline. Number 23 passed to his teammate in the corner, then made a hard cut toward the basket. Lucifer stayed glued to his hip, tracking the movement perfectly.
Then he hit a wall.
Not a wall—Team B's center, all 6'4" and 230 pounds of him, setting a screen that belonged in a back alley rather than a basketball court. Shoulder to chest, driving Lucifer backward. The referee either didn't see it or didn't care.
"Seems that Echo post made you seem better than you actually were," the center said, breath hot and sour.
By the time Lucifer recovered, Number 23 had the ball again, laying it in soft off the glass.
20-6.
Number 23 backpedaled on defense, that same controlled confidence radiating from every movement. No smirk, no celebration. Just business.
Lucifer caught the inbound again. His teammates were scattered, out of position, looking lost. Marcus, the center, was already bent over, hands on knees, sucking wind. The twins, Jay and Ray, kept switching assignments and confusing themselves. Kevin looked ready to vomit.
Seven minutes of observation. Enough.
The data was clear: his teammates were overwhelmed and underskilled. Team B was running a simple isolation strategy—let Number 23 cook while using screens to neutralize Lucifer. Basic but effective when you had the talent advantage.
Time to flip the script.
Lucifer exploded forward, zero to full speed in two steps. Number 23 met him at half-court, ready for the challenge. Most defenders would have given ground against that kind of acceleration. Number 23 held his position, forcing Lucifer to make a decision.
Think I'm driving? Sure.
Lucifer kept sprinting, selling the drive with every fiber of body language. Number 23 bought it for half a second, just long enough to shift his weight backward, protecting against the blow-by.
Lucifer planted his foot and rose up from three-point range in one motion. The ball left his hands before Number 23 could contest, rotation perfect, arc optimal.
Swish.
20-9.
"Back on defense! Now!" Lucifer's voice cracked across the gym, snapping his teammates out of their celebration stupor.
Team B brought the ball up, running their usual action—screen for Number 23, get him the ball, let him create. But Lucifer read it before it developed. As the pass left the point guard's hands, Lucifer jumped the lane, intercepting it clean.
The steal triggered a fast break. Lucifer pushed the pace, drawing both Team B's guards toward him. At the last second, he flicked a no-look pass to Kevin trailing on the wing. Even Kevin couldn't miss this one—a wide-open layup.
20-11.
The gym's energy shifted. The other courts had players stopping mid-drill to watch. Coaches were making notes on clipboards.
Team B called for the ball immediately, trying to slow Lucifer's momentum. But momentum was physics, and physics didn't negotiate.
On the next possession, Lucifer demanded the ball at the top of the key. Number 23 crouched low, ready for whatever came next. No help this time—his teammates recognized the challenge had been accepted.
Lucifer started his dribble slow, almost lazy. Then—explosion. Crossover so quick the ball seemed to teleport between hands. Number 23 recovered, but he was a half-step behind now. Enough. Lucifer rose up from mid-range, the defender's hand in his face but not quite touching the ball.
Nothing but net.
20-13.
Team B rushed their next possession, feeling the pressure of momentum shifting. Their forward forced a contested three that barely grazed iron. For once, Marcus managed to grab a defensive rebound, immediately looking for Lucifer.
The pass connected just as the buzzer shrieked, ending the first quarter.
20-13.
Lucifer held the ball as both teams headed to their benches. Across the court, Number 23 had stopped walking. The easy confidence from earlier was gone, replaced by something sharper. Focused. Maybe even concerned.
Their eyes met across the hardwood.
The real game was just beginning.