It happened quietly.
In the small, unguarded moments between water breaks when reputations slipped in through curiosity. Mico was standing near the bench, towel draped over his shoulder, scrolling through his tablet and pretending very hard to ignore how many eyes kept drifting his way.
That was when the first one approached.
"Captain Esguerra?"
Mico looked up.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the navy-and-silver warm-ups of the Guangzhou Ironclads. His posture was confident but not aggressive, more cautious curiosity than challenge.
"Yes?" Mico replied.
The man smiled and extended a hand. "Zhou Wen. Team captain of Guangzhou."
Mico shook it. "Mico. Team Captain of Castillian."
Zhou laughs. "You don't need to introduce yourself, everyone knows who you are." He glanced back at the court where Lynx was laughing after sinking another absurd shot. "You guys don't look like you're warming up for a continental league."
Mico followed his gaze. "They are, just… differently."
Zhou laughed under his breath. "That tracks."
Another figure joined them—a woman this time, coach of the Seoul Ardent, hair tied back tight, eyes sharp with intelligence.
"I hope you don't mind," she said, nodding politely. "We've been trying to figure you out since Shanghai."
Mico tilted his head. "That makes two of us."
She smiled. "I'm Han Yura."
"Nice to meet you."
She crossed her arms, thoughtful. "Is it true about Casa de Imperium?"
Mico blinked. "Which part?"
She gestured vaguely upward. "The glass spires. Underground labs. Students doing AI simulations instead of homework. Half my team thinks your university is propaganda."
Zhou snorted. "The other half thinks it's a government facility pretending to be a campus."
Mico let out a soft laugh. "I promise you, it's just a university."
They stared at him.
"…A very intense university," he amended.
Yura raised an eyebrow. "The pictures on your website, are those real?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Yes."
"Even the aerial one where the campus looks like a command symbol?"
Mico nodded. "Especially that one."
Zhou exhaled slowly. "Pulled straight out of a sci-fi novel."
"That's what my classmates said during orientation in first year," Mico replied.
Another captain drifted closer, pretending to stretch nearby. Then another.
The question came carefully, almost respectfully.
"So," Zhou said, lowering his voice, "be honest with us. Are you all… geniuses?"
Mico paused.
On the court, Jairo tripped over his own feet and cursed loudly. Uno laughed so hard he almost dropped the ball. Lynx flexed dramatically at imaginary fans. Felix calmly corrected Jairo's footwork without raising his voice.
Mico smiled faintly. "They're… good at what they do," he said.
"That's not an answer," Yura said.
Mico shrugged. "Casa de Imperium doesn't measure people by IQ. It measures by output."
Zhou frowned. "Output?"
"Can you build it? Can you solve it? Can you survive the pressure?" He looked back at his team. "Some people compute equations. Some analyze materials. Some design systems. We just happen to do it while running on a basketball court."
Yura studied him. "And you?"
Mico met her gaze evenly. "I organize disasters."
That earned a laugh from all of them.
One of the captains finally asked what they'd all been circling.
"Your strategies," he said. "They don't look… traditional."
Mico thought for a moment. "Because they aren't."
"You don't run fixed plays," Yura added. "You react."
"We adapt," Mico corrected gently. "Basketball is a system under stress. I just trust my players to make good decisions faster than the system can punish them."
Zhou nodded slowly. "That's… terrifying."
Mico look at them apologetically. "It's also exhausting."
They shared a quiet laugh.
Yura glanced back at Castillian one last time. "You know," she said, "people keep saying you're here because of strings."
Mico didn't flinch.
She continued, "But watching them… I think the strings snapped a long time ago."
Mico watched Lynx sink another impossible shot.
"So do I."
The other captains eventually drifted away. Some nodding respectfully, some still glancing back at Castillian like they were trying to solve an unsolvable equation. The low hum of the arena returned to normal, though the attention never truly left.
Mico exhaled once they were gone.
Right on cue, a familiar presence approached from behind. Paper bags rustling, the faint smell of fried dough and sugar trailing in the air.
"Sorry I'm late," Prof. Damaso said casually. "Security wouldn't let me bring the chili oil inside at first."
Mico turned. "You went out?"
"Of course I went out." The professor lifted the bags proudly. "You think elite-level stress can be survived without snacks?"
He handed one bag to Mico, who accepted it gratefully and immediately started munching on a skewer like he hadn't eaten in days.
Prof. Damaso followed his gaze to the court.
Jairo was attempting a behind-the-back pass while laughing too hard to aim properly. Uno was narrating his own moves out loud like a sports commentator. Lynx was doing something that looked illegal in at least three basketball associations. Felix, as usual, was the only one behaving like gravity existed.
The professor squinted.
"…What are those three doing?" he asked slowly.
Mico chewed, swallowed, and replied calmly, "Having fun."
Prof. Damaso blinked once. "…Fun."
"Yes, sir."
The professor tilted his head, watching as Lynx launched a spinning layup off the glass without looking, the ball dropping cleanly through the hoop. Jairo whooped. Uno clapped like it was a circus act.
Prof. Damaso's eye twitched.
"You are aware," he said carefully, "that other teams are running full tactical drills right now."
Mico nodded. "Yes."
"And you are aware," Damaso continued, "that this is the Eastern Continental League."
"Yes."
"And you are telling me," the professor said, turning slowly to face him, "that this—" he gestured vaguely at the court, where Uno had just attempted a trick pass using the backboard and somehow succeeded, "—is your idea of preparation?"
Mico took another bite of his street food. "We're not practicing," he said. "We're having fun."
Prof. Damaso stared at him. Long and hard. The look on his face hovered somewhere between are-you-joking and I-am-one-coffee-away-from-retirement.
The professor said at last, "You realize that veteran coaches are currently whispering about you like you're either a genius or just purely irresponsible."
Mico shrugged. "Both can be true."
Damaso sighed and rubbed his temple. "Mico Cein Esguerra… do you honestly expect me to believe this is 'just having fun'?"
Mico glanced back at his team—at the speed, the timing, the way they moved without speaking, without thinking.
"Sir, if I tell them we're practicing, they overthink. If I tell them we're having fun, they play honestly." He said softly
Prof. Damaso watched as Felix intercepted a pass mid-air, redirected it in one smooth motion, and Lynx finished the play without breaking stride.
The professor slowly exhaled. "…You are going to shorten my lifespan."
Mico smiled. "But not today."
Damaso shook his head, then reached into the bag and stole one of Mico's snacks.
"I swear," he muttered, chewing, "one day I'll find out where you learned to lead like this."
Mico didn't answer.