Dawn in Dasmariñas was a quiet affair, the sky a soft gradient of grey and lavender. The city was still catching its breath, holding the silence of the night just a little longer. But inside the Black Mambas' van, the air was anything but still. It was charged with an unseen current of electricity, a shared, restless energy that hummed beneath the surface. They were predators anticipating the hunt, their minds already on the court.
Coach Gutierrez navigated the empty streets with a steady hand, his expression calm but his eyes sharp, missing nothing. The van's headlights cut twin paths through the lingering pre-dawn gloom.
"This is where everything changes, boys," he said, his voice a low murmur that filled the quiet vehicle. It wasn't loud, but it carried the immense weight of the moment. "The single-elimination bracket. There are no more safety nets. No second chances. From here on out, it's win or go home."
The words hung in the air, each syllable a reminder of the stakes. They drove the rest of the way in a focused silence.
The arena gates opened into a cavernous space that felt both immense and strangely intimate in its emptiness. The early hour meant the stands were sparse, populated only by the most dedicated family members and the teams preparing for the morning's first match. The air smelled of floor wax and anticipation.
Across the gleaming hardwood, the pure yellow jerseys of the Yellow Submariners were a vibrant splash of color. They moved through their warm-up drills with a studied, almost mechanical precision, a team that knew its own formidable power.
As the Black Mambas made their way to the spectator seats near the Submariners' bench, a shadow fell over them. Tristan looked up and found his path blocked by a familiar, imposing figure—Jomar Reyes, the towering center whose very presence was the cornerstone of the Submariners' fearsome reputation. Reyes's practice jersey was already dark with sweat, and his heavy footsteps thudded on the concrete floor as he approached. His gaze was locked on Tristan, intense and unblinking.
"Don't you dare lose today," Reyes said, his voice a low, firm rumble that was less of a suggestion and more of a command. "I've been waiting for our rematch. Don't deny me that."
Tristan met his gaze without flinching, the challenge accepted in the silent space between them. "We're not planning on going anywhere," he replied, his tone even. "See you in the next round."
Reyes gave a single, sharp nod, a gesture of grim understanding. Then he turned, his broad shoulders eclipsing the court lights for a moment before he rejoined his team.
The Mambas found their seats, a tight-knit unit with their coach at the center. Their eyes scanned the court, the players, the slowly thickening crowd. This was no longer a casual viewing. This was a scouting mission.
"Okay, this feels different," Marco whispered, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. "The air in here… it's heavy."
Joseph nodded, his focus absolute. "We're not just watching for highlights now. We're studying for an exam."
Gab exchanged a knowing look with Ian. "Every tendency, every defensive lapse," Gab murmured. "It all matters now."
The arena's ambient hum was suddenly silenced as the announcer's booming voice echoed from the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Welcome to the heart-stopping, single-elimination round of the Inter-Barangay Basketball League! Kicking things off this morning, we have a battle of titans! In this corner, the mighty Yellow Submariners! And in the other, the tenacious Red Roses!"
A roar, surprisingly loud from the small crowd, swept through the stands as the starting lineups were introduced.
Coach Gutierrez leaned in, his voice a strategic whisper meant only for his players. "You know their key players, but watch how they use them. The Submariners' entire offense flows through Reyes in the post. But he's not just a scorer; he's a playmaker. Watch how the defense collapses on him. That's what creates open looks for their ace shooter, Angelo Santos. And the man who makes it all work is their point guard, Carlo De La Cruz. He controls the tempo. Fast, smart, and he protects the ball."
His gaze shifted to the other team. "Don't sleep on the Red Roses. Their record doesn't reflect their grit. Jose Sotto, their two-guard, is a master of the mid-range. His floaters and fadeaways are almost impossible to block. In the paint, Paolo Luna is their defensive anchor. He's not as big as Reyes, but he's strong, smart, and plays with relentless intensity."
The team absorbed the information, their expressions serious. The referee's whistle blew, and the game began.
The ball was tossed high into the air, a perfect arc between Paolo Luna and Jomar Reyes. Reyes, with his superior height, rose effortlessly, his long arm tapping the ball cleanly to Carlo De La Cruz. The Submariners' offense ignited instantly.
De La Cruz pushed the ball hard, his dribble low and controlled. He drove into the lane, drawing two Red Roses defenders toward him like moths to a flame. At the last second, he fired a whip-pass to the corner. Angelo Santos was already waiting, his feet set. The catch and the shot were one fluid motion. Swish.
Score: Yellow Submariners 3 — Red Roses 0
Tristan leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "Textbook. Collapse the defense, kick out to the shooter. They want to set the tone early."
The Red Roses responded not with panic, but with composure. Jose Sotto got the ball on the wing. He gave his defender a quick jab step, a convincing fake that got the man to shift his weight just enough. Sotto exploded past him, drove to the elbow, and lofted a soft, high-arcing floater that dropped gently through the net.
Score: Yellow Submariners 3 — Red Roses 2
Reyes established his dominance. He received the entry pass on the low block, backing down Luna with sheer force. One power dribble, a quick drop step, and a fluid hook shot over Luna's outstretched arm. It was brutally effective.
"Body him up!" the Red Roses' coach screamed from the sideline. "Don't let him get comfortable!"
The defensive intensity ratcheted up. A lazy pass from the Red Roses was picked off by De La Cruz, who streaked down the court for an easy layup. On the next possession, Santos, moving without the ball, curled around a screen from Reyes and drained another triple before the defense could even react.
Score: Yellow Submariners 10 — Red Roses 5
The Red Roses refused to break. Sotto, with a defender draped all over him, created an inch of space and hit a tough midrange jumper. On the Submariners' next possession, a rare miss from Santos was gobbled up by Luna, who went straight back up for a powerful putback slam, igniting the Red Roses' bench.
"Box out! Get a body on someone!" yelled the Yellow Submariners' coach during a quick timeout.
As the first quarter wound down, the Submariners held a slim lead, but the Red Roses were hanging tough, weathering the initial storm. The second quarter began with the same blistering pace. Reyes caught the ball in the lane and threw down a ferocious two-handed dunk that seemed to shake the backboard. But Sotto answered immediately, sinking a contested fadeaway jumper from the baseline that was pure artistry.
Score: Yellow Submariners 17 — Red Roses 13
"This is a war of attrition," Tristan whispered to Marco.
Marco nodded, his eyes glued to the court. "Every possession feels like a final possession."
The chess match continued. De La Cruz drove hard, drawing Luna away from the basket before dishing a slick no-look pass to a cutting teammate for an easy score. But on the other end, Luna got his revenge, meeting Reyes at the apex of a dunk attempt and blocking it cleanly, a stunning display of timing and strength that drew gasps from the crowd. Sotto, feeding off the energy, then sank back-to-back jumpers, pulling the Red Roses to within a single basket.
Score: Yellow Submariners 24 — Red Roses 22
"Watch De La Cruz's eyes, Tristan," Coach Gutierrez said softly, not taking his gaze off the point guard. "He looks off his primary target every time. And we need a body on Santos the second he crosses half-court."
"We have to make their guards uncomfortable," Tristan replied, thinking of his own impending matchup. "If we can slow De La Cruz down, we slow their whole offense down."
Gab appeared at his shoulder, his expression grim. "They're relentless. But so are we."
The whistle shrieked, signaling the end of an intense, closely fought first half. The scoreboard glowed under the bright arena lights.
Halftime Score: Yellow Submariners 28 — Red Roses 25
Tristan leaned back in his seat, his own muscles tense as if he had been the one playing. He could feel the phantom burn of exertion, the mental toll of a high-stakes game.
"This," he said quietly to the team, "is what a playoff fight looks like."
Marco managed a small, determined smile. "Good. We watch, we learn. And then, it's our turn to conquer."