Extra Basket

Score: 60 – 59

Time: 1:29 remaining – 3rd Quarter

Lucas wiped the sweat from his brow.

Not just from effort—

But from what it meant to stand here.

The crowd buzzed in the distance. But for him, all noise had faded.

Just that silence before a storm.

The kind only real competitors felt.

(He's not going easy on us.)

(He's not letting us breathe.)

(Good.)

(That's exactly what Ethan would've wanted.)

He turned.

Clapped twice sharp, deliberate.

Clap. Clap.

Evan caught it.

Ryan caught it.

So did Forest.

But too late.

Ryan's eyes flickered.

The triangle.

A buried formation. Not in the playbook. Not in the routines.

A move they'd only practiced in shadow.

Because Ethan once said:

"In case I'm not there… you three can run this."

Lucas stepped out to the wing.

Evan settled at the top.

Ryan ghosted behind the elbow, curling low like a shadow beneath radar.

Evan bounced the ball once. Twice. Rhythmic.

(Read them. Time it. Don't just run the play—feel the play.)

Lucas looked at the defense.

Elijah backpedaling with calm arms.

Kael guarding the passing lane with surgical patience.

Ayden lurking by the rim, coiled to strike.

(They don't know it's not a scoring play yet…)

Then—

Lucas cut left. Hard.

A blur.

And Evan?

He exploded the opposite way, driving right.

Forest's zone hesitated. Shifted. Flinched.

Micah lunged toward Evan.

Too late.

Evan spun—behind-the-back.

Flash.

Ryan had cut under the screen like a blade through mist.

"NOW!"

Lucas roared.

Ryan didn't flinch.

A mid-air bounce pass—

Clean. Pinpoint.

To Lucas, who had sold the drive, but reversed—

Popped out to the wing.

Feet square.

Body balanced.

Catch. Set. Release.

Smooth as silk.

A jump shot from what Ethan always called:

"The gray zone."

Where defenders blink. Where instincts freeze. Where choices crumble.

Elijah's eyes flared wide—

Too late.

Swish.

The net whispered.

62 – 60. Vorpal takes it back.

On the other side of the court…

Elijah stood still at the free-throw line, eyes distant, replaying the sequence in his mind.

(That wasn't just a triangle… it was a blueprint.)

A pause. His jaw tensed.

Then—

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

(So... you did touch this game after all...)

(That blond kid... Ethan.)

(You're not even on the court… and yet your fingerprints are everywhere.)

Now the scoreboard

Score: 62 – 63 | Time Remaining: 0:57 — 3rd Quarter

The ball inbounded to Elijah Rainn at half-court.

The lights didn't dim—

But the world did.

His focus tunneled in.

No crowd. No bench. No clock.

Just the ball.

Just the hardwood.

Just Lucas Graves.

He caught the pass with one hand, dragging it to his hip as he walked forward—slow, deliberate, unshaken.

The crowd quieted.

Tension thickened.

Something was coming.

Lucas dropped into his stance shoulders firm, eyes locked.

Evan flanked the left.

Ryan watched the baseline, ready to collapse.

They were braced.

Prepared.

Waiting.

And still—

Elijah smiled.

That same unnerving calm.

Then, soft as dusk, he spoke:

"I admit you're strong, Lucas Graves..."

Lucas's eyes narrowed.

"...But even the strong can be slayed...

...by the ones they thought were weak."

He moved.

One dribble—left.

Lucas mirrored.

But Elijah twisted—a reverse pivot behind the back, then burst right.

A double feint, fast as a blink.

Lucas stayed tight.

(I've seen this. I know this rhythm—)

But Elijah didn't drive.

He floated.

Glided into the paint like mist, never fighting—just flowing.

Then, he stopped.

Micah, already streaking toward the corner.

The pass?

A no-look sling—behind the back.

Threaded between shadows.

Micah—

Catch.

Set.

Release.

"HAND UP!" Evan shouted—

Too late.

Swish.

63 – 62. Forest retakes the lead.

Lucas bit his lip.

(That wasn't just a scoring possession...)

(That was an answer.)

Evan turned, frustration brimming.

"What the hell was that…?"

Lucas didn't respond.

Didn't blink.

Just stared.

At Elijah.

And Elijah?

He wasn't even looking back.

Already jogging toward his bench—

One hand raised in silent acknowledgment.

Cool.

Composed.

Unbothered.

A shadow wrapped in green and white.

Ayumi stood frozen, clipboard trembling in her hands. Her eyes didn't blink. Her breath stayed caught between her lips like it, too, was waiting for the next move.

She had seen plays before. Masterful ones. But this?

This was something else.

Elijah Rainn wasn't just playing basketball.

He was orchestrating it.

Beside her, Coach Fred leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His jaw tightened with quiet tension, and a low breath escaped him like a weary prayer.

"...We're back in check again."

The scoreboard still read 63–62. But it might as well have said advantage: Forest.

Across the bench, Ryan sat hunched, his eyes locked on the court as though trying to read the grooves of the hardwood for answers.

He shook his head slowly.

"Damn… he's playing like the game is talking to him."

A beat of silence passed.

Then, a soft, almost imperceptible sound.

A chuckle.

Lucas Graves.

He stood at the baseline, hands on his hips, head tilted slightly to the side—not in frustration, not in awe, but in the kind of calm that only comes from understanding.

And on his face?

A smile.

Faint. Subtle.

But it was there.

(That's fine, Elijah.)

(Because now… it's my move.)

The camera panned slowly from the scoreboard to his face, catching the faint gleam in his eyes. Not of desperation. Not of fear.

But calculation.

Determination.

The game wasn't over.

The king had moved.

And now?

It was the mirror's turn.

To be continue

Basketball wasn't just a sport.

To those who lived it, breathed it, it was a language.

Not one spoken with words, but with movement.

Footwork. Vision. Timing.

The bounce of the ball wasn't just noise, it was punctuation.

Each pass? A sentence passed between minds.

Each fake? A question mark.

And every possession?

A conversation unfolding in real time.

Some players screamed their message; loud, brash, explosive.

Dunks. Blocks. Brute power.

Others, though...

They whispered.

They read the floor like poets, letting misdirection and patience do their talking.

Letting every small detail, a glance, a pause, a foot shuffle become part of a greater dialogue.

And the best of them?

They didn't just follow the rhythm of the game.

They wrote it.

Possession by possession.

Decision by decision.

Until the court became their page,

And every other player?

Just a part of the unfolding story they were already three steps ahead in writing.