The silence of the luxury hotel suite was a far cry from the roaring crowds of the night before, but for Professor Damaso, it was a different kind of headache. He stood in the center of the common area, his packed suitcase by the door and a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, staring at a scene of total collegiate inertia.
"The flight is in three hours," Damaso announced, his voice echoing off the sterile white walls. "The van is downstairs. The fans are already lining the perimeter of the lobby. We need to move."
A synchronized groan was his only response.
Mico, the usually disciplined "Imperial Commander," was buried so deep under his duvet that only a tuft of dark hair was visible. He hadn't moved in four hours. Even the mention of a schedule—the one thing he usually lived by—didn't garner so much as a twitch. Next to him, Jairo was sprawled out like a starfish, snoring with a rhythmic intensity that suggested he was currently replaying the entire fourth quarter in his dreams.
"My ribs," Lynx whimpered from the far bed, though his eyes were glued to a handheld console. "Coach, I'm a wounded soldier. I've seen combat. I can't possibly lift a suitcase. The trauma... the bruises... they've faded on the outside, but the soul? The soul is still purple."
"You were literally doing transitions for a TikTok thirst trap two hours ago, Lynx," Damaso sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Move."
"That was for the fans! A final service!" Lynx shouted, immediately pivoting back to his game. "Uno! Stop flanking me, you coward! Tangina mo, switch to the sniper rifle if you're so good!"
Uno didn't even look up, his fingers—still lightly bandaged—moving with lightning speed across the controller. "Stay in your lane, Lynx. You're dying because you're trash, not because of your bruises. Gago, watch your left! Watch your leeeeeffttt!!!"
The two of them were locked in a digital war, cursing each other with a fluency that made Damaso wonder if they had any energy left for actual walking. The only one who seemed remotely functional was Felix. The big man was sitting at the small desk, his massive frame hunched over a laptop as he typed away at a philosophy essay.
"At least someone is being productive," Damaso muttered, walking over to Felix.
Felix didn't look up, but he pointed a steady finger toward the bed where Mico and Jairo were dead to the world. "I finished my rotations, Professor. But if you want Mico to move, you'll have to tell him the Manila Titans' coach is in the lobby asking for a rematch. That's the only thing that will trigger his fight-or-flight response right now."
Damaso looked at his watch, then back at his team who currently looked more like a group of exhausted toddlers. He took a long, slow sip of his coffee and leaned against the wall.
"Five minutes," Damaso warned, though his tone lacked any real bite. "In five minutes, I am calling the hotel staff to come in here with a cold bucket of water. I don't care if you're the Imperial Cup champions. In this room, you're still students with a 9:00 AM check-out."
"Ten minutes!" Lynx bargained, eyes still on the screen. "I almost have the high score!"
"Nine minutes," Uno corrected, headshotting Lynx's character in the game. "Because you just died." Then he cackles.
The standoff in the hotel suite had reached a state of emergency. While Felix had closed his laptop and Uno had finally put down their phones, the two primary "engines" of the team were still completely shut down.
Uno walked over to Jairo's bed first. He didn't even try to be gentle. He grabbed the edge of the mattress and gave it a violent heave. "Jairo, gising na! The van is literally idling downstairs. We're going to miss the slot!" (Wake up!)
Jairo didn't even open his eyes. His hand snaked out from under the duvet, grabbed his heavy memory-foam pillow, and swung it with surprising accuracy. Thwack. The pillow caught Uno square in the chest, sending him stumbling back.
"Five more minutes," Jairo grumbled into the mattress, his voice muffled and thick with sleep. "If you touch me again, I'm putting you in a headlock. Go away."
"He's a lost cause," Felix sighed, stepping over to the other side of the room where their Captain lay.
This was the bigger challenge. Mico wasn't just sleeping, he was in a state of total physical and mental hibernation. He lay perfectly still, his face pale and composed, his breathing so shallow that for a terrifying second, Lynx and Felix exchanged a panicked look.
"Is he... is he still breathing?" Lynx whispered, leaning in closer. "Mico? Captain?"
Felix reached out and shook Mico's shoulder. Nothing. He shook harder. "Mico, the Professor is about to call the front desk for a bucket of ice. Get up."
After what felt like an eternity of prodding, Mico's eyelids finally fluttered. He managed to crack one eye open, just a sliver of hazel visible beneath a mess of dark hair. He didn't move a muscle. He just stared at them with a blank, glazed expression, as if he were looking at two strangers who had broken into his room.
"Mico," Uno pleaded, checking his watch. "The private plane is on the tarmac. The flight plan is filed. We have to leave for the airport now or we'll hear an earful from the Emperyo."
Mico's one open eye didn't blink. He looked like a statue that had been partially brought to life by a curse. He stayed silent for a long ten seconds, the gears in his head slowly grinding to a halt rather than turning over.
Finally, his dry voice cracked the silence.
"Cancel it," Mico whispered, his voice devoid of any of its usual authority.
"Cancel what? The flight?" Uno asked, eyes widening. "Mico, we're the champions! We have a homecoming ceremony waiting for us at the University!"
"Cancel the flight," Mico repeated, his one eye slowly sliding shut again as he pulled the duvet up to his chin. "Tell the pilot to go home. I'm still sleepy."
"He's still dreaming, isn't he?" Felix muttered, looking back at Professor Damaso, who was watching the scene from the doorway with a look of pure, caffeinated exhaustion.
"He's not," Damaso sighed, checking his phone as it vibrated with yet another call from the airport coordinator. "But 'sleepy' isn't a valid reason to ground a multi-million dollar aircraft."
---
The high-stakes urgency of the morning finally collapsed into a quiet, resigned defeat. Professor Damaso stood by the window, his phone pressed to his ear as he gave the unfortunate news to the flight coordinator.
"Yes, I'm aware of the fuel costs," Damaso sighed, rubbing his temples. "But unless you have a crane capable of lifting a sleeping point guard through a hotel window, the Monte Cristo isn't leaving the tarmac today. Clear the slot. We'll rebook for... I don't know."
With the flight officially cancelled, the suite transformed from a staging area into a lazy Sunday den. Lynx and Uno didn't even pretend to be sorry, they just shuffled back to their respective beds, the glow of their mobile screens illuminating their faces as the familiar sounds of digital gunfire and Tagalog cursing filled the air again.
"See? I told you," Lynx muttered, his thumbs flying across the screen. "The plane can wait. My rank in this game cannot. Gago, Uno! Don't let them take the tower!"
Felix, ever the pragmatist, realized that if he was stuck in Cebu for another twenty-four hours, he might as well make the most of the local hospitality. He grabbed his room key and headed down to the hotel restaurant, intent on systematically sampling every variation of danggit, chorizo de Cebu, and the buffet.
About an hour later, a sudden, violent stir came from the bed next to the window. Jairo sat bolt upright, his hair a chaotic nest of curls, sniffing the air like a predator.
"Where's the food?" Jairo rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
"Felix is downstairs at the buffet," Uno answered without looking up from his game. "He said the lechon is—"
Before Uno could finish the sentence, Jairo was off the bed. He didn't grab his jeans. He didn't even put on a shirt. Still clad in his wrinkled, mismatched pajamas and looking half-conscious, he stumbled toward the door.
"Jairo, wait! At least put on a jacket! You're the Imperial Cup champion, you can't go down there looking like a—" Damaso started, but the door had already clicked shut. Jairo was gone, driven by a primal hunger that surpassed any sense of fashion or public image.
Damaso turned his attention back to the middle bed, where Mico remained perfectly, eerily still. The "Imperial Commander" hadn't moved an inch in six hours. His face was so calm, so devoid of its usual intensity, that Damaso felt a genuine chill of worry. He walked over, leaning down to check if Mico was actually drawing breath.
"Professor, relax," Uno said, finally pausing his game to look over. "He's not dead. That's just the 'Mico Reset.' When he pushes himself that hard—physically and mentally—his body just pulls the plug. It's like a bear hibernating."
"He hasn't even twitched, Uno," Damaso whispered.
"He will," Uno assured him, leaning back against his headboard. "Give him a few more hours. When the 'hibernation' ends, he'll wake up like a different person. But I'd warn the kitchen if I were you. When he finally opens his eyes, he's going to eat more than Jairo and Felix combined."
Damaso sighed, returning to his laptop to scroll through the endless stream of news articles about their victory.
---
The suite was silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of Professor Damaso's keyboard. The glowing blue light of the laptop screen illuminated the professor's tired face as he looked up, noticing the slight rustle of sheets from the center bed. Mico was finally sitting up, his dark hair a mess, his hazel eyes blinking slowly as he adjusted to the dim room.
"You've been out for nearly fifteen hours," Damaso whispered, not wanting to wake the others. "The kitchen stayed open for 'maintenance,' but they're really just waiting for you. Go. Eat something before you pass out again."
Mico didn't argue. His body felt heavy, his muscles humming with a dull, post-war ache, but the vacuum in his stomach was now more demanding than his need for sleep. He stood up on unsteady legs, pulled on a clean black shirt and a pair of grey lounge pants, and slipped out of the room.
The hotel corridors were bathed in a soft, golden light. It was late, and the frantic crowds that had swarmed the lobby earlier had finally thinned out. As Mico stepped into the restaurant, the few staff members on duty straightened up. They recognized the "Imperial Commander" immediately, the stoic captain who had dismantled the Manila Titans. They greeted him with hushed, respectful nods, which he acknowledged with a tired, polite dip of his head.
He sat at a secluded corner table and, without looking at the prices, ordered five heavy meals: two servings of beef tapa, a large bowl of batchoy, a plate of lechon kawali, and a double serving of garlic rice.
The waiter hesitated, his eyes darting from the long list of orders to Mico's lean, athletic frame. It seemed physically impossible for someone with his build to consume that much volume. But Mico simply waited in silence, his hands folded on the table.
When the food arrived, he didn't eat with the desperation of Jairo or the haste of Lynx. He ate with the same surgical, rhythmic precision he used on the court. He took large, efficient bites, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's as he chewed thoroughly, his focus entirely on the fuel his body was screaming for.
As he ate, he pulled out his phone. The screen was a graveyard of notifications. There were hundreds of messages from his classmates at Casa de Imperium in Beijing, praising his leadership and calling him a legend. He swiped past them, his thumb stopping on a message from his mother.
[ Mama: Congratulations, my son. We saw the news here. Your father is very proud. Since you are in the Philippines, can you take a few days to visit the family house in Bulacan? Your Lolo would like to see you. ]
Mico stared at the screen, a piece of beef halfway to his mouth. He thought of the quiet province, the heat, and the distance from the grind of the academy.
[ Mico: can't. Training resumes in forty-eight hours. No time for a detour. ]
He sent the message and went back to his rice, but the phone buzzed again almost immediately. It was an image file.
He tapped it open. It was a photo of a girl—half-Chinese, half-Filipina, with a bright, infectious smile that seemed to radiate through the screen. She had short, stylishly cut hair that framed a face full of life. She looked like the total opposite of Mico's cold, calculated world.
Mico froze, his jaw still working on a mouthful of rice. He stared at the girl in the photo, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to decipher why his mother would send this now. The bright, cheerful energy of the girl's expression felt like a foreign language to him.
He didn't reply. He just let the screen dim as he shoved another large spoonful of garlic rice into his mouth, his face stoic, though his gaze remained fixed on the darkened reflection of the girl on his phone screen.