The familiar rhythm of Tristan's internal clock roused him before his alarm had a chance to sing its gentle tune. The world outside was still a deep, inky black, and the air that seeped through the cracks in the window was cool and damp. It was the same pre-dawn quiet he had grown to love, a time when the world was his alone. He rose from his bed, his body feeling strong and ready, a testament to the hard work he was putting in. He had completed his 50-kilometer run, the final leg of the first mission, but his dedication to running had not wavered. It had become a habit, a ritual that grounded him in his new reality.
He went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and quickly changed into his running clothes. He was halfway out the door, moving with his usual quiet stealth, when he heard a muffled laugh from outside. He opened the door, and there, bathed in the faint glow of the streetlamp, were Marco and Gab, their breath a white mist in the cold air.
"What, you thought you were going to ditch us?" Marco said, a wide grin spreading across his face.
Gab just shook his head, a playful smirk on his lips. "We couldn't let our star player run alone. What kind of teammates would we be?"
Tristan felt a warmth spread through his chest. He wasn't alone anymore. He had a team, not just on the court, but in life. "I didn't think you guys would be here," he said, a genuine smile on his face. "I thought you were going to sleep in."
"And miss the chance to see a monster in action?" Marco said, his voice full of a friendly boast. "No way, man. We're in this together."
With a shared nod, the three of them started their run. The streets of Barangay Burol II were their own personal track, a familiar path that felt like home. Tristan ran with a steady, confident pace, his legs a blur of motion. His improved Stamina, now a solid 20, was a game-changer. He could run for miles without feeling the familiar burning in his lungs or the leaden weight in his legs.
Marco and Gab, however, were still beginners. After just a few kilometers, they were already huffing and puffing, their faces a grimace of pain and exhaustion. They fell behind, their movements becoming a slow, painful slog. Tristan, a good teammate, slowed his pace to stay with them.
"Dude," Marco said, leaning against a lamp post, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. "Seriously, what are you? You don't even look tired. I feel like I'm going to pass out."
Gab, his face pale and slick with sweat, just nodded in agreement. "He's a monster, man. We told you. It's not human."
Tristan just laughed, a quiet, satisfied sound. "It's just practice, guys. You'll get there. Just keep at it."
He felt a mix of pride and sympathy for his friends. They had showed up. They were putting in the work. That was all that mattered. The run wasn't just about physical fitness anymore; it was about camaraderie, about building a team, one agonizing step at a time. After a few more minutes of a slow, steady pace, they finally stopped, their run complete. Marco and Gab were completely gassed, their bodies a symphony of tired moans and pained breaths.
"I've got an idea," Tristan said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Why don't you guys come over for breakfast? My mom just made some fried rice, eggs, and hotdogs."
Marco and Gab's faces immediately brightened. "Are you serious?" Marco said, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and gratitude. "That sounds like a great idea."
"Yeah, man, your mom's cooking is the best," Gab added, his voice full of a genuine warmth.
They walked back to Tristan's house, a tired but happy trio. The smell of sizzling hotdogs, eggs, and garlic fried rice greeted them as they walked in. His mother, Linda, her face a picture of serene focus as she cooked, looked up and smiled when she saw them.
"Tristan! You're all here!" she said, her voice warm and welcoming. "Sit down. Breakfast is ready."
Linda placed three plates on the small table, each one a generous serving of hotdogs, eggs, and fried rice. The three of them ate in a comfortable silence, their stomachs full and their hearts light. Linda just smiled, a look of quiet pride on her face. She loved seeing her son with his friends, a boy who was no longer just dreaming in his room, but living his life and bringing others along with him.
After they finished their meal, their stomachs full and their spirits high, Marco and Gab said their goodbyes. "Thanks for the food, Tita("Tita" primarily means aunt or auntie. It's a term of endearment and respect used to address older women, often within a family or close circle of friends.)," Marco said, his voice full of a sincere gratitude. "It was the best."
"Yeah, Tita, we'll see you at school, Tris," Gab added, with a final wave, as they walked out the door, their bodies still tired but their hearts full.
Tristan showered and got ready for school, his body a symphony of tired satisfaction and a quiet, ready energy. He met Marco and Gab at their usual meeting spot, and they walked to Dasmariñas National High School, their conversations a familiar blend of schoolwork and basketball.
The school day, from Science to History, passed in a blur. Tristan's new found focus helped him sail through his morning classes. Ms. Budbud, a strict but fair teacher with a no-nonsense attitude, was teaching them about the laws of Physics. The class was a mental workout, a series of complex equations and formulas that Tristan, with his new-found focus, was able to grasp with ease.
After Science, their Filipino class was a welcome change, a lesson on the intricacies of the Tagalog language that was a quiet, almost poetic, contrast to the rigorous logic of Physics. Then came T.L.E. (Technology and Livelihood Education), where the three friends worked on their electronics projects, a a hands-on experience that was a welcome break from the classroom's theoretical lessons.
And finally, it was time for M.A.P.E.H. Today was Wednesday, so their class was Physical Education. The class was a series of drills and exercises, a chance for Tristan to showcase his skills, not just to his friends, but to the entire class. The running, the jumping, the agility drills—he was a natural, a blur of motion and energy. He was no longer just a decent player; he was a star, a quiet, confident presence on the court.
After the P.E. class, the trio went to the canteen for lunch. They were all famished, their bodies humming with a pleasant exhaustion. They talked about the P.E. class, about their basketball team, about the intercolor league. "You guys should have seen Tris in P.E.," Gab said, a wide grin on his face. "He was a monster. He ran circles around everyone."
"I'm telling you," Marco added, "he's a completely different person now. He's faster, stronger, and he's not even tired after a whole day of running."
Tristan just smiled, a quiet satisfaction in his heart. He didn't need to brag. His actions spoke for themselves. The rest of the afternoon classes flashed by, a blur of Math, English, and History. The school day ended at exactly 3:00 PM, and the trio, along with their other teammates, rushed to the barangay basketball court.
The team was already there, a group of ten boys united by a shared passion. Kyle, the quiet, serious defender, was meticulously stretching. Felix, their gentle giant of a center, was shooting easy layups. And their new teammates, Ian, Mark, John, Joseph, and Joshua, were huddled together, talking strategy.
Tristan felt a wave of pride and a quiet sense of responsibility wash over him. He was the point guard, the floor general, the leader. He had to be the one to set the tone.
"Alright, guys!" he called out, his voice clear and confident. "Let's get started."
They all came to the center of the court, a group of ten boys united by a shared passion. "First things first," Tristan said, "we have to stretch. We can't risk any injuries."
They all got down on the court, their bodies a symphony of stretches and bends. They stretched their hamstrings, their quads, their backs, and their shoulders. Kyle, with his serious, focused demeanor, led them through a series of meticulous stretches, a silent testament to his dedication.
After they were all loose and ready, Tristan took a basketball and bounced it on the court, the sound a steady, familiar rhythm.
"Alright," he said, "let's work on our shooting ability today. We'll do a series of drills. We'll do jump shots, layups, and three-pointers. We'll get our form sharp and our shots consistent."
They began the drills, the court filled with the sound of basketballs bouncing, the swish of the net, and the excited chatter of the teammates. Tristan was a blur of motion, his hands a quick, precise instrument of control. He shot the ball with a new-found confidence, his improved Vertical and Strength a palpable presence in his every movement. His shots were crisp, his form was perfect, and the ball, more often than not, found its way through the net.
Marco, their shooting guard, was a machine, his shots a consistent, rhythmic blur. He shot from the three-point line, his form a beautiful, fluid motion that was a joy to watch. Felix, their center, was a force in the paint, his powerful body a blur of motion as he shot powerful layups and jump shots.
Ian, their new center, was just as good, his shots a consistent, rhythmic blur. He was a force in the paint, his shots a testament to his sheer strength and skill.
The rest of the team, Mark, John, Joseph, and Joshua, were all talented in their own way. Mark, with his speed and agility, was a master of the fast break layup. John, a good shooter, was a consistent threat from the three-point line. Joseph, a versatile forward, could shoot from anywhere on the court. And Joshua, a tenacious defender, was a surprisingly good shooter, his shots a testament to his sheer will and determination.
They practiced for hours, their bodies a tired, sweaty blur of motion. The sun began to set, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple, but they didn't stop. They were a team, a family, and their journey had just begun. After a few more minutes of a slow, steady pace, they finally stopped, their run complete. Marco and Gab were completely gassed, their bodies a symphony of tired moans and pained breaths.
"Alright, guys," Tristan said, his voice full of a tired but genuine pride. "That's it for today. You guys did great. We'll meet here tomorrow, same time. Let's work on our defense."
They all clapped, a collective cheer of tired satisfaction. They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways, their paths diverging on the darkening streets of Dasmariñas. They were no longer just a bunch of boys who played basketball; they were a team, a family.
Tristan walked home alone, his body humming with a pleasant exhaustion. He felt a quiet sense of triumph, a feeling that was a world away from the frustrating, lonely dreams of his past. He had a team. He had a mission. He had a dream. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.