The stadium was already loud before Marcus even touched the ball.
That restless, electric snarl—shoes screaming against hardwood like dying insects, the crowd breathing as one vast, ravenous organism, coiled and waiting for violence dressed in beauty. Landon and Brian were posted at the top of the key like sentinels carved from granite, shoulders squared, knees bent, eyes narrowed to slits.
They had done this dance a thousand times.
They knew when a play mattered.
Marcus caught the pass anyway.
The noise dipped. Not silence—anticipation so thick it pressed against your spine like cold steel.
He didn't rush though.
That was the first sin.
The ball drummed low and lazy against the floor, each bounce a deliberate insult, as though the court were his birthright and everyone else was squatting on sacred ground. Landon shifted left. Brian shaded right.
Textbook trap. Clean. Professional. Inescapable.
Marcus smiled.
