Moments before tip-off, the Komodo Arena felt less like a sports venue and more like a living, breathing organism. The noise never stopped—it only changed pitch. Every seat was filled, every aisle crowded. Latecomers stood shoulder to shoulder along the railings, some even willing to watch from behind glass doors, just to witness what everyone already knew was no ordinary game.
This was the rematch.
The air was thick with anticipation, with unfinished business, with pride.
When the doors of both locker rooms finally opened and Komodo and Buffalo stepped onto the court, the arena exploded. Boos, cheers, whistles, chants—all colliding into one deafening roar. Phones were raised. Banners waved. This wasn't just home-court advantage; this was emotional territory.
The players jogged out, eyes locked, expressions tight. Some tried to look calm. Others didn't bother hiding the fire burning behind their stare.
Warm-ups began. The familiar rhythm of bouncing balls, squeaking shoes, and short shouts echoed across the hardwood. Yet even in warm-ups, there was tension. Every made shot drew a reaction. Every missed one drew whispers.
Then—
The whistle.
Both teams jogged back to their benches.
The lights suddenly dimmed.
A hush swept through the arena, followed by excited murmurs. Then a single spotlight snapped on, illuminating the Buffalo bench.
The announcer's voice thundered through the speakers, dramatic and deliberate:
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…
HERE ARE YOUR BUFFALO STARTING FIVE!"
The crowd leaned in.
"At POINT GUARD…
NUMBER 3 — VICTOR!"
Victor stood, clapped his hands once, and raised a fist. His face was calm, but his jaw was clenched. He had waited for this moment.
"At SHOOTING GUARD…
NUMBER 8 — CHOLO!"
Cholo bounced on his toes, eyes blazing. Defense was his calling card—and tonight, he planned to leave bruises.
"At SMALL FORWARD…
NUMBER 11 — JUSTINE!"
Justine nodded slowly, soaking in the noise. He glanced across the court, already studying his matchup.
"At POWER FORWARD…
NUMBER 15 — SANTINO!"
Santino slapped hands with his teammates, heart pounding. He knew this would be physical. He welcomed it.
"And at CENTER…
NUMBER 21 — TONY!"
Tony rolled his shoulders and exhaled deeply. He would be jumping against one of the biggest men in the league tonight. No fear. Only focus.
The spotlight faded.
Then snapped back on—this time on the Komodo Dragons.
The roar grew louder.
"AND NOW…
YOUR KOMODO DRAGONS STARTING FIVE!"
"At POINT GUARD…
EDMAR!"
Edmar raised one arm, confident, already scanning the court like a general.
"At SHOOTING GUARD…
JOHN CRUZ!"
The sound split—half cheers, half stunned silence. Cruz stepped forward slowly, face unreadable. This was his old family on the other side. And everyone knew it.
"At SMALL FORWARD…
THE REIGNING MVP — GEORGE!"
George smirked. He lived for nights like this.
"At POWER FORWARD…
HONORATO!"
Honorato cracked his neck, eyes locked on Santino.
"And at CENTER…
JIMMY!"
The giant raised both arms, drawing thunderous applause.
Both teams walked to midcourt and exchanged handshakes—firm, quick, professional. But beneath each grip was tension. History. Ego.
Back at the Komodo bench, Coach Fran leaned forward, voice low but sharp.
"Elias isn't out there," he said. "Either he's hurt… or they're hiding something."
He looked each player in the eye.
"Whatever it is—punish them. Make them feel what we felt. Make them regret humiliating us."
He slapped the clipboard.
"Fight, Komodo. Fight."
Across the court, Coach Ed gathered his players.
"Let them wonder why Elias is sitting," he said calmly. "Let them guess. Meanwhile—prove something."
He looked at Victor.
"Show them we don't depend on one man."
The team broke the huddle, voices rising.
"GO GO GO, BUFFA—LO!"
The referee called both centers to the circle.
Tony wiped his hands on his jersey. Jimmy towered over him, confident.
The whistle blew.
The ball went up.
Tony timed it perfectly.
He exploded upward—not higher, but earlier. His fingertips met the ball cleanly and smacked it hard, sending it flying toward the wing.
At that exact moment, Cholo burst forward, using Justine's screen like it was drawn in ink. He caught the ball in stride, already sprinting.
The Komodo defense was late.
Cholo took two long steps, flipped the ball off the glass—
SWISH.
The first basket.
The crowd gasped.
"AWWW—!" rippled through the stands.
George clapped his hands sharply.
"Alright. Let's score now."
Komodo inbounded. Edmar brought the ball up—but immediately felt pressure. Cholo was glued to him, chest to chest, hands active, feet dancing.
Edmar frowned, forced to give it up.
The ball went to George—but Justine was there, mirroring every move. Wherever George shifted, Justine slid with him. No space. No rhythm.
Frustrated, George swung the ball to John Cruz.
The moment Cruz caught it—Victor and Cholo collapsed on him.
A trap.
Cruz pivoted, muscles tight, mind racing. He heard Coach Williams yelling—
"SHOT CLOCK!"
He looked up.
Six seconds.
Five.
Four.
He spotted Honorato, momentarily open.
The pass went out.
Honorato caught, rose to shoot—
Three.
Two.
One—
BAM!
Santino came out of nowhere, timing it perfectly, blocking the shot clean.
The ball popped loose.
Santino grabbed it and immediately pitched it forward.
Cholo was already running.
He leapt, caught the ball just before it sailed out of bounds, twisted midair—
And kissed it softly off the glass.
IN.
The arena erupted—half in shock, half in disbelief.
The commentator's voice rang out over the chaos:
"I think…
Lady Luck might be smiling on the Buffalo tonight."
And somewhere on the Buffalo bench, Elias watched silently, eyes sharp, knowing this was only the beginning.