The energy in the Vultures' huddle was tense—palpable. Sweat dripped. Chests rose and fell. No one looked at the scoreboard anymore. It was already seared into their minds: 43–16.
The starters sat on the bench, breathing hard, eyes low.
Rico Harrow rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head.
"We're getting clamped," he muttered.
"Every pass, every lane—they're just… faster."
Marcus Flynn, the point guard, leaned forward, elbows on knees. "We're not running the sets. And when we do, Darnell's always double-teamed before he touches the paint."
Silas Green said nothing. He just stared at the court, hands steepled in front of his face. His long limbs still twitching with frustration.
"Effort's there," he said, voice low. "But... they're dissecting us like it's nothing."
Darnell Fox punched the bench. "That Ethan guy—he's not even their best player, and he's controlling the rhythm like a vet."
