Minutes ticked by—only a handful left on the clock now, and the scoreboard was basically just rubbing it in at this point: Heaven Reapers 15, Phei's Squad 45.
The stadium had stopped pretending this was still a basketball game. It was now a public execution with extra steps—slow, methodical, the kind where the condemned gets to watch his own coffin being nailed shut while the crowd takes selfies.
The Reapers still had possession, but the energy in the arena felt like a funeral where the corpse was still trying to give a speech—and the eulogy was going very poorly.
Marcus Heavenchild dribbled upcourt looking like a man who'd just realized his entire personality was built on quicksand.
His jersey was so soaked it might as well have been shrink-wrapped to his torso, outlining every pathetic little ab he used to flex in mirror selfies—abs that now looked like they were trying to escape his body before the humiliation got worse.
