For three days, basketball made Lâm look untouched by the world.
He ran drills until his shirt clung to his back. He shouted at his teammates when they got lazy, laughed when the younger boys missed easy layups, and stayed after practice to shoot until the gym lights flickered.
Minh watched from the bleachers with a strange ache in his chest.
This was what normal strength looked like.
Not khí.
Not ghosts.
Not monsters whispering beneath the ribs.
Just a boy who trusted his body because he had earned that trust one shot at a time.
Lâm sank five threes in a row, turned, and pointed at Minh.
"Thấy chưa?" he called. "That's called talent."
Minh almost smiled. "That's called staying after practice too much."
"Same thing!"
The team laughed. Minh did not know most of their names. He knew their positions more than their faces: the tall center who set heavy screens, the quick first-year guard, the quiet forward with taped ankles, the captain who always clapped twice before a huddle.
They were not part of Minh's war.
That was why watching them felt painful.
Lâm jogged over, ball tucked under one arm.
"Semifinals tomorrow night," he said. "You coming?"
"Against Ernest Thälmann?"
Lâm's grin sharpened. "You heard?"
"Everyone heard. Their team has a reputation."
"Good." Lâm spun the ball once. "Makes beating them better."
Minh's chest tightened.
Across the street, two boys in white-and-red warm-up jackets stood near a drink stall. One had taped fingers. The other smiled too easily.
They looked away when Minh noticed.
Thiên Phú's voice lowered.
"Scouts."
Gomboc purred.
"Break them first..."
Minh forced his hands open.
"Lâm," he said. "Be careful after practice."
Lâm blinked. "What?"
"Just don't walk home alone."
The smile faded from Lâm's face.
"Is this about your stuff?"
Minh hated that phrase because it was both too small and too accurate.
"Maybe."
Lâm looked toward the drink stall. The two boys were gone.
"Minh," he said quietly, "basketball is basketball. Don't drag ghosts into it."
"I'm trying not to."
"Then trust me to handle my own court."
Minh wanted to argue.
He also knew what it felt like to be treated like fragile glass.
So he nodded.
"Okay."
It was the first mistake of the week.
------
At Lê Quý Đôn, Lao listened to the report with bored eyes.
"Lương Thế Vinh looks healthy," Hạo Kỳ said. "Their shooter is Lâm. Minh watches him closely."
Lao smiled.
"Of course he does."
Hữu Lực cracked his knuckles. "We hitting Minh?"
"No."
That made the room still.
Lao leaned back against the torn ropes of the old ring.
"Minh already expects fists. Hit what he thinks is still clean."
Hạo Kỳ understood first. "The tournament."
"A match is just a fight with uniforms and whistles," Lao said. "The weak love rules because rules let them pretend the strong are not allowed to touch them."
Văn Lâm grinned. "Ernest Thälmann?"
Lao nodded.
"They owe us."
"How much damage?"
Lao's smile widened.
"Enough to make the boy play. Not enough to keep him from losing."
Hữu Lực laughed.
Hạo Kỳ did not.
"And Minh?"
Lao's eyes brightened with something almost joyful.
"He will hear about it. He will feel that clean little bond crack. Then we will see whether the sheep still pretends he dislikes teeth."
------
That night, in a parking lot behind Ernest Thälmann High, three boys stood under a broken lamp.
The first wore a white team jacket zipped to his throat. Calm voice. Clean shoes. Captain posture.
"No faces," he said.
The second rolled his shoulders and spat into the gutter. Bigger. Impatient.
"Wrists and knees. We know."
The third laughed softly, spinning a keychain around one finger.
"Relax, Hùng. Quân hates repeating himself."
The captain turned his head.
"Khánh."
The laugh stopped.
"Fine."
A fourth voice spoke from deeper in the dark.
"Lao wants the shooter broken in spirit, not banned from the match."
No one looked at the speaker directly.
Not yet.
Quân checked his phone. Lương Thế Vinh's final practice ended in twenty minutes.
"Then we make it look like rivalry," he said. "Nothing more."