The gym was half-lit — a long stretch of steel rafters and echoing emptiness, filled only by the sound of sneakers brushing against polished wood. It was late, long after the other students had left for their dorms.
Mico sat on the baseline, his back against the wall, a spiral drawing book open on his knees. But the pages weren't filled with sketches — they were crowded with notes, arrows, and diagrams. Formations, time marks, conditioning cycles. Even fragments of player profiles written in cramped handwriting.
Uno called it "the Castillian Bible."
"Man, you actually wrote all that by hand?" Uno's voice echoed from the other end of the court as he dribbled lazily, the ball bouncing in rhythm with his words.
Mico didn't look up. "I remember better that way."
Uno chuckled. "You sound like my old math teacher."
"I bet your old math teacher didn't plan a dynasty on graph paper," Mico said, flipping another page. The next one showed schedules — tryouts, drills, off-season prep, sponsorship pitches. Everything was already mapped.
Uno whistled. "You even got sponsor dates already? You really think we can pull this off?"
Mico finally looked up, eyes steady. "I don't think. I know."
There was a calm conviction in his tone that made Uno grin. It wasn't arrogance — it was certainty. The kind that made you want to believe him, even when logic said otherwise.
"Alright, genius," Uno said, spinning the ball on one finger. "Enough paperwork. You've been staring at that notebook for hours."
He bounced the ball once — hard — and sent it rolling across the court. It stopped right at Mico's shoes.
"Come on," Uno said, smirking. "Let's see if you still got it."
Mico sighed, but he closed the notebook and stood, stretching his neck. "You sure you want to do this?"
Uno dribbled once, smirk widening. "I'm not the one who's been sitting for two hours."
Mico stepped onto the court, adjusting his grip as Uno passed him the ball — a clean, fast toss.
The moment Mico's hand touched leather, the silence broke.
Squeak.
Bounce.
Thud.
The court came alive.
Uno crouched low, eyes sharp, every muscle ready to move. Mico faced him, calm, patient — the strategist turned player. For a moment, the future Castillian captain and his right-hand man weren't planning teams or chasing dreams. They were just two players under the dim light, testing each other's rhythm.
"First to five," Uno said.
Mico smirked. "You'll regret that."
Uno's grin widened. "Prove it."
And with that, the one-on-one began — a clash of instinct and intellect, of speed and patience, echoing across the empty court of Casa de Imperium.
The air inside the gym thickened with the echo of every bounce.
Uno moved first — quick, explosive, a blur of red and white under the dim lights. His feet danced on the floor, the ball snapping between his hands like it had a mind of its own. Mico stood opposite him, motionless, waiting — calculating.
Uno's grin widened. "Still gonna analyze me, Captain?"
"Always," Mico said, calm as ever.
Then Uno lunged. A sharp crossover to the left — fake — then a spin. But before he could finish, Mico slid right into his path. The defense was seamless, as if he had read the move before it even happened.
"Too predictable," Mico murmured.
Uno clicked his tongue, backing off. "You've been watching too much tape."
"Correction," Mico replied, "I've been watching you."
Uno laughed — loud, confident — and attacked again. This time, his rhythm changed. He dropped low, feinted twice, then went for a jump shot. The ball arced beautifully — but Mico was already in the air, hand raised, blocking it clean.
Smack.
The ball rebounded, rolled near the sideline. Mico caught it in stride, pivoted, and dashed forward. Uno chased, grinning through his breath.
Now Mico was the one moving — smooth, controlled, every motion efficient. He dribbled once, twice, then stepped back, shoulders squared. Uno lunged to block—
Too late.
The ball left Mico's fingertips in a perfect curve — a cold, deliberate shot that sliced through the air and kissed the net without touching the rim.
Swish.
"Two–zero," Mico said flatly.
Uno huffed, his grin unfading. "Show-off."
"Just math," Mico answered.
They went again — faster this time. Uno pushed harder, driving, spinning, using every trick he had. Sweat beaded on his temples, sneakers screeching against the floor. But Mico matched him step for step — a mirror image, but colder, sharper.
To an outsider, it wasn't a friendly scrimmage. It looked like war.
Every movement carried purpose. Every breath, calculation. Every shot, a message.
Uno finally broke past Mico with a fake and hit a clean jumper, landing with a grin.
"Two–one," he said between breaths. "You're not the only genius here."
Mico only gave a short and light chuckle. His eyes burned differently now, sharper, alive.
The rhythm built again — thud, thud, thud. Two friends. Two rivals. One heartbeat shared between the bounces.
Neither of them noticed the faint creak of the door in the corner of the gym.
Nor the pair of eyes watching quietly from the shadows near the bleachers — still, unmoving, analyzing their every step.
Under the pale lights of Casa de Imperium, the sound of competition drowned everything — except the silent gaze that lingered, steady as stone.
---
The final shot echoed through the gym — a sharp, clean swish that hung in the air before fading into silence.
Mico and Uno stood there, both panting, sweat dripping down their faces, the smell of varnish and adrenaline thick around them. Uno chuckled and dropped to the floor, legs sprawled.
"Damn," he breathed out, "you still don't miss, huh?"
Mico wiped his sweat with the back of his hand, still calm despite the exhaustion. "Neither do you," he said, before sitting beside Uno at the edge of the court.
The two sat there quietly for a while, catching their breath. The only sound was the faint hum of the gym lights above them.
Then, a voice came from the shadows. Low. Steady. Deep.
"You two play like you've been teammates for years."
Both turned.
A tall figure stepped out from behind the bleachers — silent, composed, his footsteps heavy but measured. The man's frame was solid, broad-shouldered, built like he could stop a truck mid-run. His sleeveless shirt clung to his upper body, outlining every line of muscle with mechanical precision. His arms were thick and veined, like sculpted marble, yet his posture carried restraint — no wasted movement, no swagger.
His face was calm, expression unreadable, eyes sharp beneath his slightly disheveled black hair.
He looked more like an engineer's blueprint brought to life than an athlete — perfectly structured, perfectly balanced.
Uno blinked, still sitting. "Uh… you been watching us the whole time?"
"Yes," the man said plainly. "You're building a basketball team."
Mico stood, silent, studying him. "You heard about it?"
The man nodded once. "Felix Montes. Architecture Department."
Uno whistled softly, exchanging a glance with Mico. "So… you're interested?"
Felix met Mico's gaze head-on. His eyes didn't waver. "I am."
"Why?" Mico asked simply.
Felix's answer was short — but something in his tone made it sound like a vow. "Because I don't like watching walls fall apart."
The silence stretched between them for a second. Uno raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Okay… that's one hell of a line."
Mico, however, didn't smile. He only studied Felix — his posture, his discipline, the way he carried himself like a fortress in human form.
Then Mico extended his hand. "Welcome to Castillian."
Felix looked down at it — then shook it firmly.
And just like that, the third pillar of the team was set.
---
The gym lights had already dimmed when the three of them stepped out into the night. The air outside was cold, brushing against their sweat-soaked shirts as they walked down the concrete path that led to the dormitory complex.
For a while, none of them spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the campus at night — the distant engines from the industrial wing, the rustle of trees that framed the walkways, and the soft thud of their sneakers against the pavement.
Felix walked slightly behind them, his long strides almost too quiet for a man his size. But his mind wasn't silent. It was full of questions.
Finally, he broke it. "Why?"
Mico glanced back at him. "Why what?"
Felix's tone was even, but curious. "You didn't even ask me to play. You just said yes. No tryout. No drills. You don't even know if I'm any good."
Uno snorted softly, amused.
Mico didn't slow down. "I don't need to."
Felix frowned. "You don't need to?"
Mico kept walking, hands in his pockets, voice calm as ever. "I can see it."
Felix tilted his head, confused. "See what?"
Mico finally turned his eyes toward him — that same sharp, calculating stare that looked like it could measure a person's worth to the millimeter. "Your form," he said simply. "Your posture. The balance in your steps. The way your shoulders align when you stop walking. You move like you're used to resistance — but you never overcompensate."
Felix blinked, caught off guard. "You got all that from just… looking?"
Mico nodded once. "It's an engineering thing."
Felix slowed down a little, trying to process the answer. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure what to even say.
Behind him, Uno laughed, catching up to Mico. "Get use to it, man. And don't think too hard about it. Engineering students are weird like that. They see formulas in everything — even people."
Felix stopped walking for a moment, brow furrowed, watching the two move ahead.
He muttered under his breath, half to himself, "Engineering and their obsession with calculations."
Then, with a quiet exhale, he followed.
The three of them disappeared into the quiet streets of Casa de Imperium, their silhouettes stretching under the pale campus lights — the captain, the showman, and the wall that would soon stand beside them.