Phei called his boys to him.
A quick huddle at half-court while the Reapers reset, while Marcus wiped sweat from his brow with trembling fingers, while twenty thousand people held their breath waiting for whatever came next.
"Listen, now that the message is sent as you guys wanted, it's time to prove it," Phei said, voice low, calm, carrying only to Landon and Brian. "Next five possessions—we don't let them breathe. Two passes maximum. We take the ball. We give them hell."
Landon nodded, jaw tight.
Brian cracked his knuckles. "How much hell?"
Phei's eyes flickered—cold, ancient, something that had watched empires rise and fall.
"Hell they'll remember when they're old."
They broke.
The Reapers had no idea what was coming.
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.
