The boat rumbled against the tide, its engines coughing smoke into the morning.
Seagulls traced lazy circles overhead while the passengers leaned on the rail, half asleep, half dreaming of dry land.
Riki stood near the bow, duffel bag by his side, the salt air sticking to his skin.
Drei and Jax were slumped against the seats behind him, heads tilted, mouths half open.
Kio sat quiet, earbuds in, pretending to sleep but watching the coastline rise.
Ahead — Cebu.
Grey at first. Then gold as the sun cracked over the sea.
Thea stood by the exit ramp, clipboard under her arm.
Thea: "Remember, we're not tourists. We're broke athletes with good manners."
Jax: "Define manners."
Thea: "Not getting arrested."
Riki: "We'll do our best."
The port hit them like a festival.
Vendors yelling, tricycles honking, boats unloading fish that still flopped in the baskets.
The air smelled of diesel, salt, and fried food.
Vendors: "Hopia! Mani! Popcorn!"
"Load! Piso Wi-Fi!"
"Ice water, bai!"
Riki grinned despite himself.
It felt like Manila, just louder and sunnier.
Thea led the way through the crowd, her Cebuano kicking in when needed — quick, confident, flawless.
Locals softened the moment they heard her voice.
Even the security guard waved them through with a smile.
Jax: "Man, Thea's like the final boss of social skills."
Kio: "Makes sense. She's from here."
Riki: "Explains the accent when she gets mad."
Thea: "Still hear you, Dela Peña."
The gym was only a tricycle ride away — Cebu South Tech, "The Machine of Visayas."
Inside, drills already filled the air — perfect sync, zero wasted motion.
Players moved like one body. Each pass had rhythm, but no soul.
Drei: "They move like robots."
Riki: "That's what makes them dangerous."
Thea handled registration. Flowstate — Manila.
First game in two days. Enough time to train, or get lost.
They dropped their bags at a small inn near the water.
When the heat cooled, Riki wandered.
He followed the sound of a ball — faint, echoing, pulled by instinct.
CEBU COAST — LATE AFTERNOON
Past the port, the road curved toward the shore.
There it was — a half-court sitting right on the beach, like someone carved it out of salt and memory.
Palm trees leaned over one side.
Fishing boats sat stacked near the rim.
Concrete cracked but solid, lines half-faded.
Kids ran barefoot, laughing, the ocean wind cutting their voices apart.
And one kid moved different.
Lean, tan, wearing an old local league jersey with the number half-peeled off.
Fifteen, maybe sixteen.
Feet tough as rope, grin too confident for his age.
He drove to the rim like he owned it.
No shoes. No hesitation.
Just rhythm — raw, wild, perfectly chaotic.
He crossed one defender, spun through another, then laid it up high off the glass.
Swish.
No sound but waves.
Lars: "Ayaw reach, bai! You reach, I teach!"
The locals howled with laughter.
Even the vendors turned to watch.
Riki stopped at the edge of the sand, arms crossed.
Riki: "He's fast."
Drei: "That's not speed, that's teleportation."
Jax: "Kid's got better footwork than me."
Kio: "Everyone's got better footwork than you."
They watched another play. Lars cut baseline, behind-the-back fake, floater.
Flawless.
Then smiled like he knew it.
Riki (quiet): "Too fast for his own rhythm."
Thea caught up, wiping sweat from her forehead.
Thea: "That's Lars Vergara. Just graduated high school last week. Local league MVP, but he quit after a fight with his coach."
Drei: "What was the fight about?"
Thea: "Direction. The coach wanted structure. Lars just wanted to move."
Lars noticed them. He walked over, water bottle in hand, grin already loading.
Lars: "You guys from Manila?"
Riki: "Yeah."
Lars: "Figures. You walk like paperwork."
Drei cracked up.
Lars: "You play?"
Riki: "Sometimes."
Lars: "Then let's play sometimes."
He tossed the bottle into a bin — missed — shrugged and laughed.
Lars: "See you around, paperwork."
He jogged back toward the court, sand flying, crowd cheering.
Riki watched him go, unreadable.
The kid's speed made him uneasy — too familiar, too reckless.
TAGUIG. SAME NIGHT.
The gym smelled of liniment and old varnish.
Lights buzzed faintly. One rim hung lower than the other, but the floor gleamed — worn from decades of sweat, not polish.
Coach Alvarado sat at the baseline, towel over his lap, eyes sharp behind tired lids.
Teo worked in silence — back to the basket, pivot, hook. Miss.
Coach Alvarado: "You're forcing it. The post isn't about muscle. It's about control."
Bong leaned against the wall near the entrance, still in slippers.
Bong: "Coach, this floor so clean I can see my GPA dropping."
Coach Alvarado: "Then study harder or mop faster."
Bong: "That's... actually terrifying."
Teo grinned, wiped sweat from his chin, then tried again.
Fake. Step. Hook.
Clean drop.
Coach Alvarado: "Better. You feel the air now, not just the ground."
Teo frowned. "The air?"
The old man smirked.
Coach Alvarado: "You ever heard why they called me The Claw?"
Bong: "'Cause you scratched someone?"
Coach Alvarado: "No, boy. Because nobody could block my dunk. I'd hang mid-air and change direction before they even left the floor."
He raised his hand, curling it slightly as if gripping the ball.
Coach Alvarado: "The trick wasn't strength — it was rhythm. The body follows the hand. And the hand follows the beat."
Teo nodded slowly, absorbing it.
He backed up again, took the ball, and moved.
Spin. Fake. Step. Jump.
The hook came off softer this time — clean, centered, like breath in motion.
Coach Alvarado: "There. That's closer. That's The Claw."
Bong clapped once, impressed.
Bong: "If I ever did that, they'd call me The Floor."
Coach Alvarado: "Because that's where you'd end up."
Teo laughed, catching his breath.
Teo: "You really could change your pass mid-air?"
Coach Alvarado: "Not could. Did. Sometimes twice, if they were arrogant."
He coughed softly, hiding it behind the towel, then pointed back toward the rim.
Coach Alvarado: "Again. Don't chase power. Chase control. Even chaos has a tempo."
Teo took the ball again, shoulders steady.
One bounce. Pivot. Hook.
Swish.
Coach Alvarado: "Good. That's how rhythm learns to fight."
Bong exhaled.
Bong: "Man, this gym's too inspirational. I feel like crying and running suicides."
Coach Alvarado: "Good. Start with the crying part."
They all laughed, the sound echoing warm against the walls.
Outside, the Taguig rain softened.
Inside, the rhythm kept going — quiet, stubborn, inherited.
CEBU — MIDNIGHT
Back by the seawall, Riki sat alone.
The port lights shimmered across the water.
He could still hear that kid's laugh in the distance — high, sharp, unbothered.
Fast kid.
Too fast.
He smiled to himself, not amused.
Riki (to himself): "Speed without rhythm's just noise."
The waves broke against the rocks below, steady and off-beat.
For the first time since Bridgefire, he felt the rhythm pull again — quiet, stubborn.
END OF CHAPTER 4 — "Southbound Air"