"KARACHI! MULTAN! MULTAN! KARACHI!!" The roars of the crowd tore through the golden-blue dusk like thunder rolling across the sea.
Flags fluttered wildly under the floodlights, and confetti glimmered in the air like restless sparks. The rhythmic beat of drums and the chant of hundreds created a living pulse—half storm, half celebration.
Ezekiel and Adam stepped into the field, shoulders squared, bats in hand. The roar swelled around them, chasing them all the way to the pitch.
Ezekiel's boots pressed against the green, the faint scent of freshly cut grass rising around him.
Adam adjusted his gloves once, exhaled, and grinned faintly—his familiar spark of excitement glinting through the nervous thrill in his eyes.
All across the field, Multan's players moved briskly into position—their shirts catching the orange gleam of the setting sun, their silhouettes sharpening under the stadium lights.
The umpires took their places, steady and composed, their shadows stretching long across the grass. The energy in the air thickened, a heartbeat before play.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Maaz's voice boomed through the phone speakers of many, cutting through the anticipation, "The eleventh match is right around the corner on this gold and blue evening! The field is set, and the batsmen are ready. Both teams are heading into what promises to be quite the competition—and of course, quite the joy! Don't you agree, Jones?"
"Indeed," Jones replied with easy laughter, his voice crackling with excitement, "Multan Sultans and Karachi Kings—ah, the oldest friendship and rivalry in PSL history, cherished by the citizens of Pakistan. Whether juvenile or professional, these two teams share a bond like no other."
"However," Jones continued, "this time both teams find themselves in the same position."
"Exactly," Wasim's voice joined in, smooth and seasoned, "Whether rivalry or friendship—today will decide which shines brighter. After their unfortunate losses—Karachi against Islamabad, and Multan against Lahore—both sides are desperate for a comeback. The stakes are high; the pressure even higher. Every run counts now, every ball's a gamble."
The commentary continued to echo faintly from a phone speaker somewhere in the press zone, where a man looked ready to collapse.
Zain — the perpetually drained reporter from what was undoubtedly an industrially exhausted sports department — stood half-slouched at the far end of the crowd, hair slightly disheveled, shirt creased from long hours in the newsroom.
The roaring chants and mood-lifting anthems around him seemed to sap his will to live faster than his third night shift. Two days of nonstop match coverage had left him with just enough energy to question his career choices, but not enough to take a proper rest.
His gray eyes were rimmed red from exhaustion, yet they refused to close. Even if he wanted to rest, he couldn't—not when Karachi Kings were on the field again. That familiar spark of stubborn passion still flickered beneath his fatigue.
Beside him, Erum, another veteran of the no-sleep brigade, stood with her arms crossed. A half-empty soda cup dangled between her fingers while her eyes were fixed on the glowing field ahead with visible irritation as she methodically chewed her soda straw — the only outlet left for her professional or probably personal frustration.
"Tch, again?" she muttered, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Chief Zain, if you don't want to sleep, that's fine—I won't argue with an old man's insomnia. But could you at least think of your young, poor, overworked subordinate?"
Her brows twitched, "Wasn't the last match enough to fill an entire article? Yet here we are, chasing Karachi again. Is the department short-staffed, or are we simply not humans anymore?"
Zain stifled a tired laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, "Journalists don't sleep, Erum. We just… blink slower."
Erum scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly rattled, "Tch, out of all the teams, it had to be Karachi. Weren't they humiliated enough losing to my Islamabad United? And now they're back again, parading their nerves?" Her voice carried a mix of smugness and exasperation, but Zain only smiled faintly, watching the players take their stance under the fading light.
Zain sighed, leaning back against the railing as the roaring crowd surged and rolled like waves beneath the floodlights. Erum really had a grudge with Karachi. Whether born from sheer irritation or because their tenacity scratched her nerves, he couldn't tell—but that was precisely what amused him.
He turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a teasing smirk. "Oh? If your precious Islamabad had been playing today like they did two days ago, I would've loved to see your face then. Now that I'm here for Karachi, you're puffing up like a blowfish. What a fine example of favoritism."
Erum froze mid-sip from her straw, eyes narrowing like a cat ready to swipe. "HUH? That's really rude, Chief." She slammed her drink down on the seat's backrest, voice brimming with mock indignation.
"At least they won again against Peshawar. What about Karachi, huh? I bet Multan's stronger, and today—" she pointed toward the field dramatically "—they won't stand a chance! Mark my words, hmph!" She stomped down the steps toward her seat, sitting with a dramatic huff, arms crossed tight, her cheeks puffed ever so slightly as she turned away.
Zain chuckled under his breath, watching her from behind—the way her ponytail flicked as if punctuating her frustration. He leaned forward on the railing, the faint metallic scent of the barrier mingling with the cool air. His pen spun lazily between his fingers, glinting under the warm gold of the floodlights. "Did you check their lineup for today's players?" he asked casually, tone carrying that familiar, knowing curiosity of a man who'd been a reporter far too long to miss a good story.
Erum, still sulking, looked over her shoulder. "Karachi's?" she asked, reaching for her phone. The bluish glow of the screen reflected off her sharp eyes as she scrolled, her expression shifting from mild irritation to shock in the span of a few seconds.
"Haruf Noor Faris and Evandor Amermiah…? The big two among the high schoolers?" She turned halfway toward Zain, her voice rising an octave, "They're sending both of them?!"
Zain didn't answer immediately. His pen clicked once between his fingers—a habit when his instincts told him something deeper was stirring beneath the surface.
Erum squinted, scrolling further. Zain continued, "Not just them—Orion Allaudin, also known as The Greatest Executioner… Noah Chevalier, their best power player… and lastly, their ace—"
Suddenly Erum, interrupted, voice catching in disbelief. "That brat. That overconfident, unruly brat, Alan Rex Lorenzo, is also on the list!"
Zain exhaled, shoulders rising and falling with a quiet amusement, "Quit it with your assumptions."
"What? Didn't you see his demeanor back then?" She leaned forward, voice sharp but comical in its exasperation, "He looked way too smug for his age. Hah, good thing they lost that day. Maybe that long-haired brat learned a lesson or two from it."
Zain's lips curved in a quiet grin as he turned his eyes back to the field. The floodlights had now fully awakened, pouring molten gold across the pitch and throwing the players into sharp relief. "Learned a lesson… hun" Zain murmured, almost to himself, "Yeah, he sure would have."
Something in his voice made Erum pause mid-scroll. She turned her head, her brow furrowing. Zain's tone wasn't mocking nor tired—it carried something else entirely. A quiet, assured conviction.
"Not just him," Zain added, his eyes reflecting the shimmer of the floodlights, "all of them."
Erum's phone slowly lowered in her hand. She studied him, confused. Her Chief—who defended Karachi like it was his second home—sounded unusually distant now, his words layered with something thoughtful.
Zain twirled his pen again, his gaze never leaving the pitch where players were warming up. "Their lineup, their participants, their entire strategy…" He raised his pen slightly, pointing towards Karachi's pavilion where Alan was studying the field with Nagi and Seraph near the boundary, "It all shows what they're aiming for this time."
Erum tilted her head, curiosity glimmering behind her skepticism, "And that is?"
Zain smiled faintly, the crowd's thunder reflected in his grey eyes. "It's not the match," he said. "Not even about recovering from their previous loss." He paused, letting his words sink beneath the echo of the cheers.
"They want to prove…" His voice softened, reverent almost, "Prove the world why they were once called 'World class'."