The noisy street basketball court, which just a second ago had been deafened by shouts and whistles, momentarily fell silent. A heavy, sticky bewilderment hung in the air, mixed with growing irritation.
"What do you mean, the game is over? This is basketball!" exclaimed Haru Lin. His voice, usually so mocking, now rang with genuine confusion and a dull, rising fury. He was still standing at center court, his palms, which had just released the ball in a perfect arc from half-court, were still hot.
Chang Wo, their school coach, a man usually restrained and methodical, now seemed like an outsider. His face was pale, as if carved from marble, and in his eyes, darting between the players, the referee, and the grim group of spectators on the far benches, there was pure, naked fear. He ignored Haru Lin's protest, taking firm, sharp steps towards referee Sung Wo.
"I'm not joking, Haru," the coach said, turning around. "I'll call the police if this doesn't stop. You don't understand what you're dealing with."
He swept his gaze across the entire court, his eyes sliding over the gangster faces frozen in the shadows, over the heated faces of spectators with bills clenched in their fists:
"This isn't just a game. This is gangsterism disguised with a ball and a hoop!"
The coach's words, loud and clear like gunshots, triggered an instant, polarized reaction. From So Ho's team, a wave of almost tangible relief rolled through. Their shoulders, tense all this time, slumped at once.
"Finally!" Jen Ryu exhaled, and a wide, crooked grin spread across his face. He shot a glance towards Ming You, full of silent hatred. "That bastard Ming You is going to get what he deserves!"
"Yeah, his time has come!" Mei Yu chimed in, rubbing his hands together. "We won't put up with his insolence anymore! No more debts, no more 'special rules'!"
"He thought he could do whatever he wanted," So Ho said with cold contempt, looking straight at Ming You, who sat calmly on the bench. "We'll show him a real team doesn't need someone like him."
For So Ho's team, the coach's words were a breath of fresh air, but for others, they were a cold shower. The spectators, realizing their exciting spectacle might be cut off at the most interesting part, began to grumble. A whisper, like the hum of an angry hive, spread through the stands.
"Asshole!" a man in a worn-out jacket roared, jumping to his feet. His face was crimson with anger and likely drink. "We came to watch a game, not some teacher's drama! I bet ten thousand on number six!"
"Yeah, this old man doesn't understand what he's doing!" another shouted, shaking his fist at Chang Wo. "Let them play! Cut this pantomime!"
The noise grew. This wasn't just sports excitement — it was the anger of people watching their bets, their money, their adrenaline about to turn to nothing. In this chaos, in the darkest corner behind Taek Jung, his group stirred. Heavy-set guys in leather jackets exchanged glances, their faces, disfigured by scars and perpetual malice, contorted even more.
"This old man has no right to interfere in our business," one hissed, clenching his fist. "Who does he think he is, ruining our business?"
"Yeah, let's just kick him the fuck out," another agreed, running a hand over his closely shaved head. "A couple of shoves and he'll run off to call his police himself. Right, Taek Jung?"
All eyes turned to their leader. Taek Jung sat motionless, his dark eyes fixed on Ming You's figure. He slowly exhaled cigarette smoke and, without changing his expression, said indifferently:
"Do what you want. Just make sure the show doesn't suffer."
That was enough. The gangsters nodded silently, as one, and began to slowly, with obvious menace in every movement, make their way through the crowd towards the coach. Their intention hung in the air, thick and unambiguous.
But at that moment, Ming You leisurely rose from the bench. His face was calm, only the corners of his mouth playing with his familiar, sly smirk. He stepped towards the approaching gangsters, raising his palm in a clear, authoritative "stop" gesture.
"Wait, friends," he said, and his voice, quiet yet cutting through all the noise, made them freeze in place. "No need to dirty your hands. This is my game, and I'll deal with our… concerned mentor myself."
The gangsters, clearly displeased but accustomed to obeying this strange, hypnotic confidence, took a step back, melting back into the shadows. Ming You, adjusting the cuff of his school white shirt, turned to the coach. His entire posture radiated ostentatious peacefulness and mild bewilderment.
"Hey, coach!" he shouted, raising his hands as if surrendering. "Chill out! It's just a game! No need to get so worked up! Let's continue," he turned to the spectators, smiling broadly, and made an inviting gesture like a showman in an arena. "See, everyone wants to watch us play!"
In response, cheers and whistles erupted. Some even started chanting: "Play! Play! Play!"
Chang Wo, however, was not part of this crowd. He saw the hidden spring behind this performance. The coach stepped forward, reducing the distance to Ming You to a minimum. His face was distorted not just by anger, but by deep, almost fatherly disappointment and horror.
"You think you can just ignore everything? Mess with everyone's heads?" he hissed so only Ming You could hear. His voice trembled with rage, held back only by willpower. "I won't let you destroy these kids. I won't let you turn basketball into… into this! If you don't stop this circus and leave the court right now, I'm calling the police! I swear!"
Ming You leaned towards him, his smile not fading, but in his eyes, so close, the coach saw only icy, bottomless emptiness and mockery.
"Police? Seriously, old man? You know yourself it's just a game. No one will get hurt if we continue."
With these words, he easily pushed away, as if brushing off a pesky fly, and returned to his bench, leaving the coach standing alone at center court, trembling with impotent rage. Chang Wo stared at his back, clenching his jaw so hard his cheeks ached.
"You won't get away with this, Ming You," he said hoarsely, but his voice was already lost in the general din. "I expect you at school tomorrow." He almost snapped, almost shouted "bastard" after him, but swallowed the word, feeling its bitter taste on his tongue.
"Good luck, coach," Ming You waved at him sarcastically, with exaggerated politeness, without turning around. Then he announced loudly, for the whole court: "So, friends? Referee, time! Let's resume the game!"
But the game was already over. So Ho's team, feeling at least some, even if shaky, protection behind them, had already made their choice. They didn't run to their positions. They slowly, demonstratively headed towards their backpacks by the side.
Jen Ryu, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, turned and shouted across the court, pouring all his accumulated anger and humiliation into his words:
"Go fuck yourself, Ming You! We're done playing your sick games! Got it? Never!"
"That's right," So Ho added coldly but firmly, heaving his backpack onto his shoulder. "As of today, consider yourself no longer part of this basketball club."
The organizers, two fidgety guys, scurried about in confusion. Their gazes, full of questions and fear, darted to Ming You. They quietly approached him, one whispering:
"Ming You, should we stop them? The debts are still hanging…"
Ming You, without taking his eyes off the departing figures, just lazily waved his hand.
"Let them go. Don't touch them." He smirked maliciously. "It's even to my advantage that my player won technically. The money is ours. And as for them… I'll deal with it myself."
Referee Sung Wo, seeing the complete collapse, blew his whistle with relief and, raising his hand, announced:
"Due to the opposing team's refusal to continue the game, the victory is awarded to… player number six — Haru Lin!"
Haru stood there, arms hanging by his sides. Contradictory feelings raged in his chest. On one hand — a technical victory. On the other — a gnawing, poisonous dissatisfaction. He didn't just want to win. He wanted to crush them, humiliate them on the court, prove his superiority in the game.
As the spectators, cursing and counting bills, began to disperse, Ming You's team gathered around him. Jung Ho was the first to break the silence, placing a heavy hand on Ming You's shoulder.
"Min, what should we do in this situation?" he asked quietly but confidently. "Personally, we don't care what the coach says. To us, you'll always be the captain."
"Yeah!" Lu Shen chimed in fervently, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We're with you! What's he going to do? Kick us out? We'll leave on our own!"
Haru Lin gloomily watched them, then grumbled, looking at his feet:
"Somehow I don't really like this…"
"Don't sweat it, Haru," Jung Ho turned to him. "It's all under control. Right, Min?"
Ming You finally tore his gaze away from the emptying court. His face was a mask of indifference, but his eyes seemed to flicker with quick, shadowy calculations.
"Exactly. But our game, in its usual form, is unlikely to continue."
"Why not?" Lu Shen frowned. "We're a team!"
"Because," Ming You explained patiently, as if to children, "our dear newcomers now know they have an official shield in the form of the coach. They think he'll cover for them, and that we, with our 'rules,' can't do anything about it."
Lu Shen scratched his head:
"What do you mean, 'in their opinion'? Are we going to go beat their asses to change their minds?"
Haru Lin snorted, and his habitual caustic tone returned:
"The only ass getting beaten will be yours, Lu, if you go up against the coach and school administration. So not an option."
"But they'll be fucking yours at the club meeting!"
"And yours…"
"Both of you, calm down," Ming You interrupted them. "You won't have to do anything. No need to run after them. They'll play anyway. Their newfound confidence is a soap bubble. It'll pop in a couple of days when they realize the coach can't be their personal bodyguard 24/7, and their old problems haven't gone anywhere. You'll see."
Jung Ho nodded in agreement, his bulky frame radiating calm faith:
"That's true. Everything will return to normal."
Haru exhaled, calming down a bit, but immediately frowned again:
"But the coach will try to officially kick you off the team tomorrow. He'll call a meeting, pressure the administration."
"Let him try," Ming You shrugged.
"But don't worry!" Lu Shen suddenly perked up. "We won't let him do shit! We'll all stand up and say you're the captain!"
"Exactly!" Jung Ho slapped his fist into his palm. "We're with you no matter what! You've always helped us. Especially with those debts after the past failed games. We won't forget."
Even the usually silent Hong Ren, who normally kept out of these squabbles, nodded. His eyes were still downcast, but he said quietly:
"Well… You're the only one who brought bright colors into our boring, grey school life. Before you, it was just basketball and cramming. So… yeah. We're with you."
For a moment, silence hung in the air. And into this silence, Ming You took a breath and plastered on his face that same, familiar-to-all, fake yet brilliantly executed smile.
"Thank you, guys. Sincerely." His voice sounded warm, almost touching. "But I'll handle all this myself. It's not your headache. Don't worry."
Ming You stood up from the bench, stretched, and his posture became relaxed again:
"Now, we can disperse."
His team nodded obediently, almost reflexively. They reached for their things and began to disperse into the evening twilight.
Haru Lin, walking alongside Hong Ren, couldn't resist and jabbed him in the side with his elbow again, snidely:
"Hey, Hong. By 'bright colors,' you didn't happen to mean our collective loss of virginity with those prostitutes, did you?"
Hong Ren, usually unflappable, flushed slightly and moved away.
"Tired of picking on Lu Shen and decided to switch to me, huh?"
Ahead of them, Lu Shen turned around and spread his arms indignantly:
"Why am I the target again?!"
But his voice was drowned out by the general laughter, which, though nervous, dissipated the residual tension.