Lin Mo carved the words into the trophy base after midnight: "G7, 0.3s." The metal bit back, leaving a ragged line, like the scrape on the boy's prosthetic from when he'd tripped over a rehab mat last week.
The boy's video arrived as he was blowing away the metal shavings. In it, he stood on a scale in the rehab room, the display flickering to 60kg before his knee buckled. "Doc says 50kg's my limit for now," he panted, propping himself up with a cane. "But 60? Knee歪了1.2cm—same angle as your pass. Felt like I could almost reach it, though. Kinda like you almost made that throw."
Lin Mo's thumb hovered over "Don't be stupid," but he deleted it, typing instead: "60kg tomorrow. 51kg today. Baby steps. Like how we practice screen reads—one frame at a time."
He scrolled to a Timberwolves interview, Towns laughing as he showed off his knee brace. "Some kid sent me a note," the center said, "said my tape was off by 0.5cm. Turned out he was right. Details don't care if you're an All-Star or in rehab." The camera zoomed in: the tape sat perfectly, 0.5cm left of where it had been in the Finals.
The system pinged, pulling up a log: "Western Conference Finals: 17 details flagged by [Boy]. 6 communicated to team. 0 executed in Game 7." Lin Mo's jaw tightened. He'd hoarded the info, like a kid hiding candy—afraid to share, afraid it wouldn't matter.
He opened the team chat, typing: "New rule. Every detail, no matter how small—sock slides, wrist taps, knee tilts—goes here. No exceptions."
Booker replied instantly with a photo: his left sock, halfway down his calf. "Test. This means I'm nervous. See? We're pros."
By morning, the chat had 23 messages: the center noting a rival's habit of adjusting his headband before a 3-pointer, a rookie pointing out a guard's lopsided gait when tired, Booker sending a video of himself mimicking the sock slide.
Lin Mo smiled, adding his own: "G7, 0.3s. We fix it together."