The Horizon bench gathered like a weathered army regrouping before the final charge.
Sweat dripped.
Hearts pounded.
Legs ached like rusted metal.
Sayaka, ever reliable, moved between them like a medic in the trenches—
Handing out bottles, slinging towels over shoulders, her voice soft but steady.
"Here. Water. Breathe, okay? You're not machines."
But they were damn close to becoming one.
Coach Tsugawa's voice cut through the fog.
"You need to slow down. Stop letting them bait you."
The players raised their heads—exhausted, wired, blood still pumping too fast.
"When you play at their speed, your focus slips. And when focus slips—
You don't score.
You make mistakes."
Dirga wiped his face, breathing through clenched teeth.
His vision still buzzing from Godframe.
His fingers twitched like they hadn't left the court yet.
Coach's eyes locked with his.
Not angry. Not panicked.
Just heavy—like someone trusting him with everything.
"Dirga.
You're the maestro.
