The fourth quarter didn't explode.
It pressed down.
Like a weight slowly increasing on Seiryō's shoulders, breath by breath.
Yuuto bent forward as the ball bounced out of bounds, hands braced on his knees. His lungs burned—not the sharp pain of sprinting, but a deep, grinding ache, like air itself had grown heavier.
He coughed once.
Then again.
The sound was ugly.
Too loud.
Marcus glanced back immediately. "You good?"
Yuuto raised a hand without looking up.
"Yeah," he lied.
But his legs trembled as he straightened.
Across the court, Hakuro looked the same as they had all game.
Calm. Organized. Unrushed.
Haruto adjusted his wristband with deliberate care, eyes half-lidded, like this was still warmup. Ryu bounced the ball lazily, sweat barely clinging to his jawline.
They're not slowing down, Yuuto realized.
We are.
The whistle blew.
Hakuro possession.
