The buzzer sounded again, signaling the start of the second quarter. The starting five from both teams rose from their benches. Once more, Dranred's supporters looked disheartened when they realized he still wouldn't be playing. Yet even with their disappointment, their cheers for him and for the team didn't falter.
Even without their star player on court, the Phoenix refused to give up. They played with renewed focus, closing the Falcons' lead from ten points down to just six. Several of Dranred's teammates stepped up, proving that their championship run wasn't carried by him alone. Before the half ended, one of them hit a perfect three-pointer that cut the Falcons' lead to only three points.
Dranred jumped from his seat, gripping his towel tightly. If there's only something I can do, he thought. For now, though, it seemed better that he stayed on the bench. The team was playing well without him. If he went in and lost focus again, he might just drag them down.
In the Falcons' locker room, the mood was the exact opposite. Everyone congratulated James for his performance. He had completely shut down Phoenix's ace player, and their man-to-man defense was working exactly as planned.
James couldn't stop smiling. He knew Dranred couldn't beat him — not before, and not now. This was his moment, the victory he had been waiting for since his accident. Even the exhaustion that came with pushing his recovering body felt distant, almost unreal. He wanted to keep playing, to keep proving himself. But his coach and therapist had warned him not to overexert. He still wasn't fully healed.
Fortunately, their strategy had worked. Dranred was out of the game, and as long as he stayed that way, James could rest. If they won this match, he'd have more time to recover for the next.
Meanwhile, in the Phoenix locker room, the atmosphere was heavy and still. No one spoke. Even the coaches sensed the weight pressing over their players. Peter paused at the doorway, hesitating before entering.
His eyes found Dranred sitting silently, head bowed, hands gripping his towel as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. Peter had watched him play for years, and what he saw earlier wasn't the Dranred he knew.
He remembered something Dranred had once told him — that the one player he never wanted to face on the court was James. Not only because James was a brilliant player, but because basketball itself had been Dranred's way of paying a personal debt to him. Now that debt stood across the court — alive, moving, and beating him.
In Peter's mind, there was no doubt—Dranred must be feeling completely devastated. The very thing he feared most had finally happened. Peter knew how hard Dranred had been working to return to his old form, not just for himself, but for his teammates and the fans who filled the arena to see him play.
What will you do now, Dranred? Peter thought as he watched his friend in silence. He knew Dranred had to find a way to overcome this, but how? It was as if the young man now stood before an unbreakable wall.
Since his debut, Dranred's rise had been meteoric—faster even than Drake's, who had been in the league longer.
But maybe that's why he rose so effortlessly: because he had never faced someone who could read him perfectly. And now, it seemed, James was that one player capable of doing so.
While the teams took their halftime break, the world outside was already in chaos.
Social media was flooded with clips of Dranred's first-half violations. Critics mocked him, saying he didn't even know the basics of basketball. Supporters, on the other hand, filled comment sections with concern—asking if he was all right, wondering what was wrong with their "shooting star."
Trending next was the mysterious new player—the so-called Anti-Shooting Star. Praise poured in for his flawless defense and the seamless chemistry he shared with Drake.
Fans were quick to crown them the "New Duo," the next kings of basketball.
Others were harsher. "Dranred's era is over," they wrote. "It's time to make way for the new generation."
But his loyal fans weren't having it. They fought back online, defending their idol and posting messages of encouragement. Inside the stadium, tension filled the air as both teams clashed physically. Online, the war of words between fans of the two sides was just as fierce.
It was, by far, the most-watched finals game in history—nearly eighty percent of the arena packed, and millions more streaming it live.
And yet, amid all that noise, one player sat quietly in the locker room, holding a towel in his hands, wondering if the world had already moved on without him.
The match between the Falcons and the Phoenix was the most anticipated game of the season. It felt as though the entire nation was watching — every eye glued to the court, every conversation centered on one question:
Could the fallen superstar make a comeback, or would the new duo finally claim the throne?
The halftime break had just begun. The arena buzzed with chatter and flashing lights, but amid the noise, Rosette suddenly stood from her seat.
"Rosette?" Estelle asked, frowning. "Where are you going?"
"Estelle, come with me," Rosette said softly.
"Come with you? What for? Do you need to use the restroom or something?"
Rosette hesitated, biting her lip. "No… it's—"
"Dranred," Estelle finished for her.
Rosette glanced toward the court, where their brother James had just returned with his teammates. He looked energized, confident, waving at them from a distance.
"You're worried about him?" Estelle asked, her tone tightening.
"He's not—" Rosette began, but Estelle's voice cut through hers.
"Why would you care?" Estelle snapped. "Look at James—look how happy he is. Do you really think now is the time to run after someone else just to comfort him? You know how much this game means to your brother. You know the history between them."
Her eyes stayed locked on James as she spoke, her voice trembling slightly. "If you truly care about him, then just stay here. Watch him play. Dranred isn't a child who needs you to hold his hand. This is part of the game."
Rosette felt her chest tighten. Every word from Estelle struck deep, because she knew she wasn't wrong. But still—wanting to see Dranred didn't mean she didn't support James. It just meant she cared.
Her heart ached. She knew Dranred must be feeling completely lost after James' sudden return to the court. It wasn't just about the game anymore — it was about pride, guilt, and ten years of unresolved history between them.
Rosette clenched her hands in her lap. She wanted to move, to find him, to say something that might ease the pain she knew he was carrying. But she couldn't. She could only sit there, torn between loyalty and compassion, and watch as the second half of the game drew near.
The second half of the finals began, but Dranred still hadn't returned to the court. He remained on the bench, silent, watching.
As the third quarter started, the Phoenix came alive. Their rhythm was sharper, their defense tighter, and within five minutes, they had erased the Falcons' lead—and even pulled ahead. It was as if the team had found a new source of strength during the halftime break.
The crowd roared in excitement. Without their main player, the Phoenix were proving that they were more than just Dranred's team. Each member played with heart and precision, showing the crowd why they deserved to be in the finals.
Two minutes before the end of the quarter, the Falcons called a timeout. Their coach barked orders, furious at the sudden collapse of their defense.
Meanwhile, on the Phoenix bench, one of Dranred's teammates turned to him.
"We've got the momentum. You can go back in now."
Dranred shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. Honestly, I'd just hold everyone back. We have a better chance if I stay out." He looked at their coach. "You think so too, don't you, Coach?"
The team's center leaned forward, frowning. "Since when did you start talking like a coward? Don't tell me you're backing down just because your old friend's on the other side."
The coach crossed his arms. "You'll be playing in the last quarter."
"But Coach—" Dranred began, his voice uncertain. His mind wanted to fight, but his body hesitated. The team was in a good position now; he didn't want to ruin their momentum.
Another teammate spoke up. "You're not weak, Dranred. You're the Shooting Star. Don't you hear the crowd out there? They still believe in you. Don't let them down—they didn't come all this way to watch you give up."
The team captain, the oldest among them, stood up and adjusted his jersey. "Put him in for the fourth," he said firmly before walking back to the court as the buzzer signaled the end of the timeout.