Iron Vault Arena.
The game between the Iron City Roarers and the Millvoque Bullets had boiled down to its final minute.
Roarers 112, Bullets 110.
The Bullets' coach signaled timeout, clipboard scratching out hurried diagrams. The huddle was tight, voices sharp. When the buzzer pierced the air, the play was set.
As players broke from the huddle, Kambon clenched his fists, his voice low but venomous:
"Let's show them what real champions look like."
The ball returned to play. Bullets' possession. Holloway brought it across half court, deliberate, patient, searching. He waved Milton up to the wing. The message was clear: their midrange assassin would take this one.
Milton caught the entry pass, squared to the rim, and immediately tested Gibson with a jab. Gibson didn't flinch. His stance was wide, his arms spread, his balance coiled like a spring.
