The gym's air conditioner turned the air into ice shards. Lin Mo sat in front of the tactics board for two hours, the paper worn through by eraser marks tracing Gobert's movements. The system panel, unusually dim, didn't even show the basic "Opponent Analysis" – as if it knew what he feared.
"Don't overthink it. Another hundred three-pointers?" Coach Wang's voice emerged from the shadows, his tactical pen spinning fast. "Or are you afraid you can't guard Gobert without the system's prompts?"
Lin Mo looked up sharply, his Adam's apple bobbing. The coach had never spoken of the "system," yet these words cut like a scalpel, exposing his feigned calm. He remembered three years ago, sitting on the bench, watching teammates play, the ecstasy when the system first lit up – Which was more real: the love back then, or the dependence now?
Pulling out his phone, LeBron's draft message lay untouched: "The final is your stage." Deleted and rewritten, he finally sent just the gym's location. At 3 a.m., he dribbled alone. Without system prompts, he tripped during a crossover, his knee thudding on the floor. In the dull pain, he heard a roar inside: If we lose tomorrow, does that mean I never deserved to be here?