The Gods' offense was surgical. When they moved, it was to correct a reality that had been momentarily misaligned their bodies were not aggressive so much as editorial. Ares charged through contact with the indifferent force of a battering ram, but moved with care so as not to spill purpose. Hades ghosted into lanes and took possessions like a hand drawing coins from a pocket quiet and inevitable. Chronos repositioned in a way that made Kobe's instincts feel obsolete; the center rose not from instinct but because time allowed it.
The commentators' voices climbed into the high register then retracted, trying to hold language around the phenomenon and failing. "He's not contesting—he's disallowing the possibility of success," one said, and the engineer in the booth tried to equalize the tremble out of his voice. There was a helplessness in their narration, as if they had been asked to translate thunder.
