The scoreboard blazed: Vorpal 80 – Harbor 65.
Four minutes left in the third. The gym was a cauldron.
Every dribble cracked like thunder, every step carried fire.
Lucas caught the ball on the wing. His golden eyes narrowed, body dipping into a wide stance, shoulders loose, ball rocking like a pendulum.
Clamps Lee smothered him.
But Lucas? He went old school.
A stutter-shake, then a lightning-quick Tim Hardaway crossover.
Clamps twitched too slow. Lucas exploded past him, rising into a hanging midrange fade,
a carbon echo of MJ over Ehlo.
Swish.
82–65.
Before Harbor could even react, Ethan was already barking, pointing, reading lanes.
His system flared.
Passing Angle +1.
Timing Boost +1.
The ball zipped to Evan, who skimmed baseline, then rifled it back to Ethan at the top. Ethan didn't even look, he snapped a no-look dime behind his back to Brandon rolling in the paint.
BANG! Dunk!
84–65. The crowd detonated.
