0 – 7
The air in the gym was thick.
Not with noise—
With pressure.
Dirga clenched his jaw, his breath shallow, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Three possessions behind.
No rhythm. No traction.
Not outplayed.
Erased.
Every play Kurotsuki made felt like a blade—precise, cold, merciless.
He couldn't let this spiral.
He had to shatter it. Now.
Dirga barked the call—
Short. Sharp. Final.
Like a command on the battlefield.
Aizawa darted in—
Quick pin on the wing, tight and low.
Taiga curled up to the elbow, footwork clean, cutting space.
Rikuya dragged his defender, scraping through the baseline shadows to pull Sho with him.
No feints. No misdirection.
This wasn't a trick play.
It was war.
Dirga accelerated—
Left side, explosive.
Toshiro read it.
Stepped up.
The trap formed—
A perfect vice.
As expected.
But Dirga didn't flinch.
Didn't dump the ball.
He stopped. Dead.
Shoes screeched.
Bodies tensed.
Time snapped taut like a bowstring.
Pivot.
Then—
