The morning after their victory was a jarring, cold-water submersion into a new reality. The 38-point demolition of CDO High felt like a distant, hollow victory. The Dasmariñas National High were the ambush predators who had successfully taken down a regional monster, only to look up and see the real apex predators circling.
They had earned themselves a rest day. But there was no rest.
By 9 AM, the entire team was assembled in the 'Matina' conference room. The mood was not celebratory. It was grim, academic, and heavy with a tension that breakfast had done nothing to dissipate. The air was cold, the only light coming from the 70-inch television at the front of the room.
Aiden Robinson was there, his first time in the war room. He sat at the head of the table next to Coach Gutierrez, his crutches leaning against the wall, his casted leg propped up on a spare chair. His laptop was open, a complex spreadsheet of stats and tendencies already pulled up. He had traded his jersey for a clipboard.
"Good morning," Coach Gutierrez said, his voice flat, devoid of congratulations. "You won your first game. You did your job. You get to stay here. That is your reward. Your reward... is this."
He hit a button on the remote. The screen flickered to life.
CEBU CITY HIGH (68) vs. SAN FERNANDO HIGH (52)
The final, brutal score from yesterday's execution.
"We have exactly 24 hours," Coach G said, "to figure out how to stop a god. San Fernando couldn't. Naga couldn't. They had Mythical Five players of their own. We do not. They have Emon Jacob, the 'Cebu Machine.' We have... this."
He gestured to the room. "We have a system. We have a plan. And we have a lot of work to do."
He started the film. It was the first quarter.
"You all watched this yesterday," he said, his voice a low, clinical monotone. "You watched as fans. You were scared. You were awed. Today, we watch as surgeons. We are not here to admire. We are here to find a flaw. We are here to find a single, tiny crack in the armor that we can rip open. Tristan, what did you see?"
Tristan, his mind still humming with the power of his new Gold-tier Floor General badge, spoke with a new, cold clarity. "I saw a top-heavy system. Jacob is the engine. The other four are just wheels. They can't change direction on their own. They can only go where he steers them."
"Good," Coach G said. "The 'passengers.' Let's meet them."
He skipped forward, past Jacob's highlights, to a possession in the second quarter.
"This," he said, "is J. Abella, their point guard. Number 5. Watch."
On the screen, Jacob drove, drew three defenders, and fired a perfect, laser-pass to Abella, who was wide open for a mid-range jumper. Abella caught it, hesitated, and then passed it back to a now-covered Jacob. The possession stalled.
"He didn't want it," Daewoo said, his eyes wide. "He... he was open, and he didn't want the shot."
"He's not a scorer," Aiden chimed in from the head of the table, his voice surprisingly firm. "He's a dribbler. His job is to get the ball to the spot where Jacob can start his action. He's not programmed to shoot. If you force him to be the one to make a play, he defaults. He panics."
"Exactly," Coach G said. "He's a passenger. Now, look at this."
He fast-forwarded to the play where Abella had missed the wide-open fast-break layup. The entire room winced.
"He's fast," Tristan analyzed, his new Passing Vision: 80 making him see the play in a different light, "but he's not a finisher. He's just a runner. We can exploit that."
"Next," Coach G said, "their bigs. K. Ramos, #44, and V. Chavez, #11. What do they do?"
Ian Veneracion, who had been studying the bigs, spoke up. "They're screeners, Coach. Purely. They don't have a post-game. I watched the whole tape. Not one post-up. Not one. They just set picks and roll to the rim to catch a lob from Jacob. They're finishers, but they're not creators. They're completely dependent."
"So," Tristan summarized, a cold, tactical plan forming in his mind, "we have four players on the court who are programmed to do one thing: get the ball to Emon Jacob, or wait for Emon Jacob to get the ball to them. They have no individual offensive identity."
"And that," Coach G said, a fierce, predatory light in his eyes, "is the crack in the machine. That is the flaw we are going to exploit. Which brings us... to the plan."
He stood up and walked to the whiteboard.
"You all know the plan. We call it 'The Dog Pound.' We are taking Emon Jacob out of the game."
He turned and pointed, with a dramatic, single-finger jab, at his three fastest, most tenacious defenders.
"Daewoo Kim. John Manalo. Joseph Rubio."
The three players sat up straight, their hearts hammering.
"You three," the coach said, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper, "have the hardest, most painful, and most important job of your lives. You are not basketball players tomorrow. You are a virus. You are an annoyance. You are a shadow."
He turned to the rest of the team. "We are playing a 4-on-4 game, with a 1-on-1 shadow. From the second Emon Jacob steps on this court, one of these three men will be in his jersey. You will face-guard him. You will deny him the ball. You will pick him up at the inbound and you will not leave his side until the whistle blows or you are subbed out. I don't care if he goes to the bathroom; you go with him. Am I clear?"
"Yes, Coach!" the three 'dogs' said in unison.
"This is not about stopping him," Coach G continued. "This is about frustrating him. This is about making him work for 40 minutes just to touch the ball. We are going to make him run a full-court marathon, and we're going to use three fresh sets of legs to do it. Daewoo, you start. You go until your tongue is on the floor. Then John, you go. Then Joseph. Then we start it all over again. You will foul him. You will be physical. You will make him hate this game."
He then looked at his other four starters: Tristan, Marco, Gab, and Ian.
"Your job," he said, "is to win the 4-on-4. We are baiting them. We are daring their four role players to beat our four best players. Can they do it, Herrera?"
Tristan, feeling the power of his Gold Floor General badge, felt a cold, new confidence swell in his chest. He wasn't just hoping his teammates would be better. He knew he could make them better.
"No, Coach," Tristan said, his voice steady and calm. "They can't."
"Good. Because if we win the 4-on-4, we win the game. I don't care if Jacob scores 30. If it takes him 30 shots to do it, and his teammates only score 10, we win. This is our path. This is our only path."
The room was silent, the insane, audacious, and utterly disrespectful plan hanging in the air.
"Okay," Coach G said. "Let's get to work."
For the next two hours, they didn't watch the game. They watched one player. Coach G and Aiden, working in tandem, had edited a 40-minute film of only Emon Jacob. Every single offensive and defensive possession.
The "Dog Pound" trio was brought to the front, sitting on the floor at the coach's feet.
"Watch this," Aiden said, his voice sharp, pausing the film. "This is his move. Off the inbound, he fakes to the corner, then V-cuts hard to the top. He does it 80% of the time. Daewoo, you can't follow him. You have to beat him to that spot. Cut him off before he gets there."
"Yes, Coach Aiden," Daewoo said, scribbling furiously.
Coach G took over. "Now, look at this. This is his crossover. It's beautiful, it's low, but it's a setup. He's not trying to beat you with it. He's using it to create space for his jumper. John, you're stronger. When he initiates contact, don't back up. Get into his body. Make him feel you. He hates physical contact. He's a finesse player. We are not."
"Yes, Coach!" John said, his knuckles white.
"Joseph," Aiden said, "you're the chaos. You're the fastest. When you're in, you're not just guarding him. You're attacking him. You're going for the steal. You're going to be so annoying, so quick, that he's going to be worried about you, not his offense. You are the disruption."
"I can do that," Joseph grinned, a manic light in his eyes.
While the trio was being mentally broken down and rebuilt, the rest of the team was in their own huddle, led by Tristan.
"Okay," Tristan said, his notebook open. "This is our 4-on-4. Ian, Gab, their bigs are just screeners. They're not threats. I want you to dominate the glass. Every missed shot is ours. No second-chance points for them. None."
"Got it, Cap," Ian and Gab said in unison.
"Marco," Tristan said, "you're going to be guarded by their #11, Chavez. He's slow. He's a forward playing the guard spot. You are going to cook him. I want you to run him off screens until his legs fall off. This is your game to score 20."
Marco, who had been terrified, suddenly saw the opportunity. "A 6'4" forward is guarding me?" a slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "Oh... oh, that's not... that's not fair. That's just mean, Coach."
"It's the matchup," Tristan said. "And me... I have their point guard, Abella. The one who can't shoot. The one who's scared. I'm not going to just... I'm not just going to run the offense. I'm going to attack him. I'm going to break him down, every single possession. I'm going to make him beg to come out of the game."
The fear in the room had been replaced by a cold, analytical, and borderline-psychotic focus. They had a plan. They had a path. It was a path of pure, unadulterated, disrespectful, grinding warfare. It was, in short, a Dasmariñas basketball plan.
The film session finally broke at 5 PM. The players' minds were mush. They had been in that dark room for hours, living and breathing Emon Jacob.
"Alright," Coach G said, "that's it for film. Your brains are full. We have a light, one-hour walkthrough in the gym. Just to walk through the 'Dog Pound' rotations and our 4-on-4 sets. After that, dinner, and then you are in your rooms. Curfew is 8 PM. Not 9. Eight. I want you in bed, sleeping, by 8:30. Tomorrow... tomorrow is the biggest game of your lives."
The walkthrough was a strange, silent affair. The gym was quiet. Tristan, with his new Gold-tier Floor General and 80-point Ball Handle, felt like he was moving in fast-forward. His dribble was tighter, his movements more explosive. He ran the 4-on-4 sets, and his passes, enhanced by his new Silver Dimer, were crisper, faster, hitting his teammates in the shooting pocket with a new, perfect precision.
Ian and Gab, working the high-low, looked unstoppable against the scout team. Marco, running his routes, looked faster than ever.
And then there was the "Dog Pound."
Tristan played the role of Emon Jacob. Daewoo face-guarded him.
"Harder, Daewoo!" Coach G yelled. "I want to be able to read the lettering on his jersey from behind you! Get closer!"
Daewoo, breathing hard, dug in, his hand in Tristan's face, his body glued to his hip.
Tristan tried to fight through. He used his new Ankle Breaker...
He hit Daewoo with a crossover. Daewoo, with his incredible defensive footing, stayed with him... but his feet stumbled, just for a half-second.
Tristan was by him.
It worked. He thought, a jolt of electricity shooting through him. It actually worked.
He pulled up for the jumper.
"Good move, Herrera!" Coach G yelled. "But it took you ten seconds to get that shot! That's a win for us! Next! John, you're in! Harass him!"
John Manalo, stronger and more physical, bodied Tristan, bumping him, shoving him.
"Joseph! You're in! Go for the steal!"
Joseph was a blur of hands and feet, swiping at the ball, forcing Tristan to pick up his dribble.
It was exhausting. It was annoying. It was working.
That night, in Room 1012, Tristan was lying in bed. It was 8:15 PM. Daewoo was already fast asleep, his body utterly spent from the mental and physical prep.
Tristan was staring at the ceiling, his mind a calm, quiet lake. The fear was gone. The awe was gone. There was only the plan.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Claire.
Claire: You're quiet tonight. Scared?
Tristan smiled.
Tristan: I was. I'm not anymore. We watched the film. He's a machine. But all machines have an 'off' switch. We're going to find it.
Claire: I know you will. You're the smartest player I know. You got this. The whole school is having a live-viewing party in the gym tomorrow. We're all screaming for you.
Tristan: I'll give them something to scream about.
Claire: I know. Now go to sleep, Captain. You have a giant to slay tomorrow.
Tristan: He's not a giant. He's just a guy.
Claire: Goodnight, Tris. I love you.
Tristan: I love you too.
He put the phone down. He thought of his new arsenal. He thought of his team. He thought of the "Dog Pound." He thought of Gab and Ian and Cedrick, ready to do the dirty work. He thought of Marco, ready to be the dagger.
He thought of Emon Jacob, the perfect player, sleeping in his own hotel room, thinking about the championship, not about the pack of dogs that was waiting to tear him apart.
He's not a machine, Tristan thought, as he closed his eyes, a cold, confident smile on his face. He's just a guy. And tomorrow, we're going to break him.