The tip-off hung in the air like a held breath.
Tanaka and Kiyoshi leapt – nearly equal in height, both timing the bounce with precision. The ball scraped fingertips before tipping toward Seirin. Izuki caught it cleanly, bringing it up the floor under the glare of the Winter Cup lights.
From the start, it was clear this wasn't going to be a reckless, highlight-heavy shootout. Both teams moved like machines running diagnostics – cautious, probing, taking the measure of their opponent.
Izuki scanned. Suzuki mirrored.
Suzuki was faster, twitchy even, his feet dancing in small bursts as he shadowed Seirin's plays. But Izuki's eyes – sharp and calculating – were already drawing mental lines through the floor, plotting angles. It was like watching two chess players move pawns, neither committing to a strike yet.
Kiyoshi stepped out to set a screen. Kagami brushed past, caught the pass from Kuroko, and thundered inside. The sound of the rim bending echoed across the court – Seirin's statement dunk.
Meisei's bench didn't flinch. If anything, Sato's smirk only widened.
Next possession, Suzuki returned the favor. He called a simple motion play – hand-off to Sato, then a clean screen from Tanaka. One step, one fake, and Sato was free.
His jumper was effortless – textbook form, full extension, perfect follow-through. The swish barely disturbed the net.
8–8. 10–10. 12–12. Neither side pulling ahead.
Hyūga fought to stay on Sato's hip, but every movement from Meisei's star felt smooth, patient, deliberate. He didn't force the issue – every shot was within rhythm. He wasn't trying to dominate yet. Just recording.
Across the court, Kuroko tested Ito's defense – quick give-and-go passes with Izuki, flashes of Vanishing Drive that opened momentary gaps. But Ito was disciplined; he didn't lunge or bite. He'd slide half a step, recover, keep his body square. It wasn't flashy, but it was frustratingly effective.
Momoi scribbled notes from the stands, whispering to herself, "They're not pushing tempo… they're collecting data. Both teams."
"Yeah. They're feeling each other out." Beside her, Aomine's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That's what pros do."
Back on the floor, Kagami finally broke through again – a cross-step, a shoulder fake, and he powered straight through Yamamoto. Foul. Basket. And-one.
The crowd roared. Kagami's dunk shook the backboard again – pure, unrestrained force. But as the ball dropped through, Suzuki glanced toward Meisei's bench. Their coach didn't look worried – he just nodded once.
Tanaka jogged past Kagami on the way to inbound. "Not bad," he said quietly, just loud enough to hear. "Keep it up. We're taking notes."
By the next possession, Meisei's rhythm had already changed. Two passes. One back cut. Yamamoto, wide open in the corner. Three-pointer – clean.
Izuki looked at Riko. She only nodded. She could see it too – they were adjusting every possession.
The quarter settled into a rhythm that wasn't chaos or domination, but something sharper – mutual study. Kiyoshi and Tanaka traded bruises in the post, both testing the other's footwork. Izuki mirrored Suzuki's pace, mapping his movement like a radar sweep. Kagami kept slamming through Yamamoto, but Meisei's help defense started rotating quicker. Sato hit his jumpers; Hyūga finally returned one from deep.
By the final minute, the scoreboard read 23–21, Meisei slightly ahead.
But no one was celebrating. Both benches were quiet, serious – eyes forward, not back.
Because this wasn't about who scored more in the first ten minutes. It was about who learned more.
~~~~~
From the stands, Momoi closed her notebook and sighed. "They're both dangerous now."
"Yeah. That's the worst part. The real game hasn't even started yet." Aomine smirked faintly.
~~~~~
When the buzzer sounded for the start of the second quarter, both benches had already moved their pieces. It wasn't about fatigue – it was about information.
For Seirin, Riko clapped her hands once. "Kuroko, rest this quarter."
Koganei jogged in, eyes sharp and determined. Without Kuroko's misdirection, Seirin's spacing would change – more traditional, more readable. But it also meant that Meisei couldn't gather enough data and adjust to invisible passes.
Across the court, Meisei answered with its own shift. Coach Yamada made a subtle motion – and two players switched spots. Kenji Yamamoto, the shorter but sharper defender, slid over to the small forward slot to guard Seirin's wings – a direct counter to Kuroko's absence.
Koji Ito, taller and more physical, moved down to power forward to meet Kagami head-on. It was a silent message: We're adapting too.
The rhythm of the game changed. Where the first quarter had been cautious and exploratory, the second was surgical – two teams adjusting like mirrors.
Meisei opened with a play that felt almost routine. Suzuki pushed up the middle, Tanaka set a high screen, and Sato drifted wide to the right wing. Izuki read the lane correctly, but when he called for help, the pass didn't go to Sato.
Instead, Suzuki whipped it behind the arc – Yamamoto, now on the perimeter, let it fly. Three-pointer. Clean.
Seirin didn't panic. Izuki slowed the pace, calling out the next set. Kagami caught the ball in isolation against Ito. The crowd leaned forward – everyone knew what was coming.
Two crossovers, a spin, an explosion off the floor – but Ito didn't flinch. He met Kagami chest-to-chest, body solid, absorbing the contact. Kagami still scored, muscling through, but the message was clear: he'd have to work for it now.
Everywhere, the matchups were balancing out.
Tanaka and Kiyoshi continued their tug-of-war in the paint, each earning rebounds and second-chance points. Neither gave an inch. Hyūga and Sato traded jumpers like snipers – Hyūga finding his rhythm off screens, Sato replying with effortless precision.
Even Koganei found his mark, spacing the floor well, cutting through the baseline to draw the defense and keep Meisei's rotation honest.
~~~~~
Up in the stands, Momoi watched quietly, her pencil scratching across paper. "Both coaches made the same read," she murmured. "They're saving energy – and collecting new data for the third quarter."
"You can tell just from their movement. Nobody's overextending." Aomine grunted, chewing the inside of his cheek. "It's like they're both waiting for the same opening."
Momoi nodded. "And when that moment comes… it's going to explode."
~~~~~
By the midway mark, the pace had become deliberate, almost mechanical.
Seirin's plays clicked, but Meisei always seemed half a step ahead. Suzuki was reading Izuki's eyes, Sato was anticipating Hyūga's off-ball curls, and Tanaka had completely sealed off easy interior passes to Kagami.
Then, late in the quarter, Meisei struck with quiet cruelty.
Sato pulled up for three – a miss – but Tanaka boxed Kiyoshi out perfectly, grabbed the rebound, and fed Ito under the rim. One easy finish.
Next play, Suzuki slipped through a gap in the defense, drew Kagami's attention, and lobbed it backward. Yamamoto, open again. Another three.
The lead stretched – not by power, but by precision.
When the halftime buzzer echoed through the arena, the scoreboard read: Meisei 48 – Seirin 38.
Ten points. Exactly the kind of margin that looked small – until you realized how efficiently Meisei had built it.
~~~~~
As both teams walked off the court, their coaches didn't shout or scold. There were no fiery speeches, no slammed clipboards. Just quiet, focused words – preparation for what everyone already knew.
The real battle wasn't the first or second quarter. It was the third.
And when it came, both sides planned to end it there.