Teiko was undefeated.
Blowouts became routine. The Generation of Miracles overwhelmed their opponents with precision, power, and raw genius. But lately, something had changed—subtly, at first. Plays that used to revolve around Aomine's isolation now suddenly shifted to include Gojo. Akashi's carefully structured offense began to bend around Gojo and Kuroko's unpredictable synergy.
It wasn't just effective—it was dazzling.
And not everyone was happy.
"He's getting cocky," Aomine muttered after practice, tossing his sweat-drenched jersey onto the bench.
"When was he not?" Midorima replied without looking up from taping his fingers.
"No, I mean worse than before. He acts like he's the new center of the team."
Akashi listened quietly from the corner of the locker room. His eyes flicked to Gojo, who was laughing with Kuroko by the court, the two of them analyzing slow-motion replays on a tablet. The chemistry between them was unmistakable.
Kise noticed it too. "He and Kurokocchi… they move like they're reading each other's minds."
"Or maybe Gojo's finally found someone who doesn't get blinded by him," Midorima said, coldly.
Kuroko himself wasn't oblivious. He felt the shift—the longer glances from Akashi during drills, the way Aomine stopped calling for passes when Gojo was on the court. Even Murasakibara, usually indifferent, had started fouling harder when Gojo was near the paint.
"I think they're starting to resent you," Kuroko said quietly after practice one day.
Gojo shrugged, hands in his pockets, sunglasses reflecting the fading gym lights. "I don't care."
"You should," Kuroko said. "We're a team."
Gojo looked at him, serious for once. "We were never really a team, Tetsu. Just five weapons that learned to coexist. You were the glue. And now… you and I might be the spark."
Kuroko stared at him.
"That spark could burn this whole thing down," he said.
Gojo gave a crooked grin. "Maybe it needs to."