The Heaven Reapers reset.
Marcus took the inbound, jaw locked so tight the muscles along his neck stood out like steel cables under silk. He dribbled upcourt with deliberate menace—right hand, casual pace that screamed ownership, every bounce a proclamation: this court is mine, this game is mine, this moment is mine.
The stadium still buzzed from the previous sequence, but now the noise had teeth. Everyone knew what was coming. Everyone wanted blood—some for Marcus, some against him, most just for the spectacle of the Earth Prince being tested.
Phei shadowed him from the side—not in front, never in front. Half a step behind, close enough to smell the expensive cologne warring with the faint, acrid tang of humiliated sweat. He watched Marcus's wrist.
Always the wrist. Never the ball. The ball was a servant; the wrist was the master.
Marcus shifted left.
