Within seconds, the crowd erupted. The Phoenix supporters who had nearly given up sprang to their feet, waving and shouting his name. Cameras turned. Reporters scrambled to capture the moment. Even the Falcon players glanced toward the tunnel, expressions shifting from shock to something closer to respect.
Dranred walked calmly toward the bench, his hood down, his gaze steady. He looked different — not just focused, but grounded. Like someone who had made peace with something inside him.
Cal was the first to speak. "You sure took your time."
Dranred smiled faintly. "I had to recharge."
Cal blinked, confused. "What?"
"Never mind," Dranred said, suppressing a laugh as he grabbed his jersey.
The coach said nothing for a long moment, then simply handed him the lineup sheet.
"You'll start the second quarter," he said finally. "Make it count."
Across the court, James was already warming up. When his eyes met Dranred's, the air seemed to shift — two worlds colliding in silence. Neither spoke, but both understood: this wasn't just another game.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena:
"Ladies and gentlemen — welcome to Game Four of the Finals!"
Cheers filled the air again. As the players took their places, Rosette and Estelle found their seats near the court. Rosette's hands tightened around the baseball in her lap.
"Hey, you're glowing today," one of his teammates teased, glancing at Dranred. "Something good happen?"
Dranred just smiled faintly, his eyes drifting toward the audience stands above the Falcon bench. That's when he saw Rosette and Estelle arriving, taking their seats. Estelle waved toward James on the court.
His teammates followed his gaze, curious.
"You seeing something we don't?" another player joked, laughing.
Dranred chuckled and shook his head. "Nothing," he said simply, though the soft smile never left his lips.
He stood and began to remove his warm-up jacket and jogging pants. The moment the crowd caught sight of his Phoenix uniform underneath, the entire arena erupted in cheers.
Fans who had all but given up suddenly came alive — shouting his name, waving banners, jumping to their feet. The cameraman, quick to catch the moment, zoomed in on the back of Dranred's jersey.
On the giant screen above, his number flashed clearly for everyone to see — the number they'd been waiting for.
The noise swelled, echoing through the stadium like thunder.
He was back.
The main star of the Phoenix had returned — and the entire arena could feel it.
Dranred jogged to the sideline, the weight of the noise crashing around him — the crowd, the lights, the cameras. And yet, in his mind, he could still hear Rosette's voice, soft and certain:
"If you can finish this game and win… then you can return that ball to me."
He touched the pocket of his jacket where the baseball rested — a quiet promise, a silent challenge.
Then the whistle blew.
And for the first time in a long while, Dranred smiled — not the smile of a showman, but of someone who had finally found his place again.
"Let's play," he whispered, stepping onto the court as the crowd roared his name.
The referee blew his whistle, signaling the start of the game. Just like in the first match, Dranred was in the starting lineup for Phoenix, and James stood ready for the Falcons.
It seemed their team planned to use the same strategy — putting James directly against Dranred once again.
At center court, Dranred and Drake faced each other for the jump ball. The tension was thick, the crowd holding its breath as the referee prepared to toss the ball into the air.
"Don't humiliate yourself a second time, Mr. MVP," Drake sneered.
"Don't worry," Dranred replied coolly. "I won't."
Drake smirked. "You should've just stayed in baseball. You'd be more useful there."
"I'll decide where I belong," Dranred shot back, his tone calm but sharp. "And maybe try talking less — your voice is getting annoying."
Drake clenched his jaw, irritated by how composed Dranred looked compared to their first game.
The referee threw the ball high into the air. At its peak, both men leaped — and Dranred's hand tapped it cleanly toward their team captain.
Phoenix gained possession immediately. Their captain caught the ball and sprinted across the court with Dranred following close behind. His speed was blinding — Drake could barely keep up.
In one swift motion, Dranred drove into the lane, received a pass, and finished with a smooth lay-up. The crowd erupted as Phoenix scored the first points of the game.
The sheer precision and coordination between Dranred and the team captain left everyone stunned — even Drake stood frozen for a moment, realizing this wasn't the same Dranred he had faced before.
If Phoenix opened strong with a quick score, it was the complete opposite for the Falcons.
Phoenix's defense was airtight — every lane blocked, every pass challenged. The Falcons struggled to penetrate, their offense smothered at every turn. The pressure was relentless.
As the shot clock wound down, the buzzer sounded — shot clock violation.
The Falcon coach's face darkened, clearly displeased. Even their fans were caught off guard. No one expected the Falcons to falter this early.
It was undeniable: this was a different Phoenix — sharper, hungrier, and playing with a new fire.
And at the heart of that fire stood Dranred. His return had completely reignited the team's spirit.
Dranred brought the ball across half-court. Just like in the first game, James was there waiting for him — quick, focused, unyielding.
But this time, Dranred didn't flinch. The hesitation that once clouded his play was gone.
Before James could trap him, Dranred passed the ball smoothly to a teammate. The Phoenix supporters roared in approval, energized by the team's crisp coordination.
When the ball came back to Dranred, both James and Drake immediately closed in — a tight double team.
The crowd gasped, expecting him to be trapped.
But Dranred didn't panic. With sharp footwork and confident dribbling, he spun between the two defenders, creating just enough space.
In one swift motion, he jumped — launching a three-point shot.
Drake leapt to block him, his hand brushing Dranred's wrist. The contact was light, barely enough to notice—
Swish. The ball sank cleanly through the net.
A heartbeat later, Dranred hit the floor.
The referee's whistle blared — foul, on Drake!
The crowd erupted. Phoenix's bench jumped to their feet, cheering as teammates rushed to help Dranred up.
Drake scowled. He knew his touch hadn't been strong enough to knock anyone down. When his eyes met Dranred's, the Phoenix star was already smirking. That's when Drake realized he'd been tricked — a clever play to draw the foul.
"It's okay," James muttered, patting Drake's back, though even he couldn't deny what he'd just seen. Dranred was different now — sharper, calmer, and completely in control.
The commentators' voices rose with excitement.
"Three points — and a free throw to come! What a play by Dranred! His rhythm tonight is phenomenal!"
Barely three minutes into the game, and he had already made a huge impact.
His shots were clean, confident — almost unstoppable.
This was not the Dranred from the first game.
This was the reborn Dranred — and Phoenix was alive again.