Morning hit Cebu like a slap of heat.
By the time Flowstate stepped out of the inn, the sky was already burning white and the port smelled like salt and oil.
Jax: "Bro, I think the sun's mad at me."
Kio: "You ever consider it's karma?"
Drei: "Focus. We're late for check-in."
Riki: "We're not late. We're underdressed."
Thea, clipboard in one hand and coffee in the other, didn't even flinch.
Thea: "Let's move. Cebu South Tech's opening ceremony starts in twenty."
Jax: "So no breakfast?"
Thea: "There's air. Breathe it."
CEBU SOUTH TECH GYM — REGISTRATION
The gym loomed like an engine — noise, motion, precision.
Even warmups looked like they were rehearsed.
Cebu South Tech — "The Machine of Visayas" — every cut and pass synced like a metronome.
Riki stopped at the entrance.
He'd played in chaos all his life.
This was the opposite — control so clean it almost made his skin itch.
Drei: "You can't even hear them talk."
Kio: "Machines don't talk."
Thea: "They win. Every year."
Riki just nodded. "Let's see what perfect looks like."
She signed Flowstate in under "Manila North."
Hundred-thousand prize pool, yes — but the small print was what mattered:
Winner advances to the National Collegiate Showcase.
The real prize.
Thea: "Five thousand pesos for two days. Don't starve, don't gamble, don't die."
Jax: "You have so little faith."
Thea: "Because I've met you."
SIDE COURT — NEAR THE SHORE
Their assigned court was a half-sunken rectangle of concrete beside the beach — lines faded, one corner missing, waves visible past the rim.
Fishermen leaned against boats nearby, watching like it was TV.
Jax: "This court's leaning."
Drei: "So is your life. Play."
They started shooting around, sweat already stinging.
Then, a ball whizzed through the air — someone else joining in.
Lars.
Barefoot again, grin already halfway there.
He'd been playing with local kids, cutting through sand like it wasn't even there.
He spun, laid it up, hit nothing but glass.
Kio: "Here comes trouble."
Riki: "Let him in."
The kid joined their scrimmage without asking.
No introductions, no rules.
He moved too fast for them to adjust.
Dribble. Slash. Pass midair. Laugh.
Pure motion — no structure, all instinct.
Riki watched, analyzing — eyes narrowing, not at the mistakes but the rhythm hidden underneath.
"Raw," he muttered. "Like street noise trying to find melody."
When practice ended, Lars grabbed his slippers and a bottle of water.
Lars: "You guys play clean. Too clean. You gotta scare people a little."
Riki: "We'll scare them by winning."
Lars: "Good luck with that pace, paperwork."
He grinned, waved, and jogged off.
THEA'S LEAVE
That night, Thea stood by the front desk, small bag in hand.
Thea: "My lola in Talisay. I'll be gone two days."
Drei: "Should we feel responsible or unsupervised?"
Thea: "Both. Try not to trend for the wrong reason."
She handed Riki an envelope.
Thea: "Five thousand pesos. For two days. Be adults."
Riki: "That's generous."
Thea: "No, that's survival."
She turned to leave.
Riki: "Hey—"
Thea: "Yeah?"
Riki: "Thanks. For trusting us."
Thea: "I don't. I'm just optimistic."
And with that, she was gone.
THE ENVELOPE
Later that night, Riki sat at the small inn table, envelope in front of him.
Five thousand. Food. Transport. Bare minimum survival.
Lars showed up barefoot again, towel around his neck.
Lars: "Coach at Cebu State said I'm done. Too wild. Flair don't win games, he said."
Drei: "You looking for a team?"
Lars: "Just a chance."
Riki looked down at the envelope, then back at the kid.
Riki: "You got ID?"
Lars: "Yeah."
Riki: "Then you're registered. Two and a half thousand goes to you."
Jax: "Wait—what?"
Riki: "We either go broke or go broke together."
Lars blinked, caught between disbelief and laughter.
Lars: "Bai, that's the dumbest smart thing anyone's ever done for me."
Riki: "Welcome to Flowstate."
The room fell quiet for a second.
Then Jax groaned. "If Thea finds out, we're dead."
Drei: "Yeah, but at least we'll die with better defense."
Riki smirked. "And faster legs."
NEXT MORNING — OPENING SCRIMMAGE
Cebu South Tech's opening game wasn't a match — it was a clinic.
No trash talk, no wasted breath. Just execution.
Macky Tumulak split defenders like code running clean.
Their big man moved like gravity had a job description.
Kio: "They're perfect."
Drei: "Then we make them messy."
Riki: "We don't match their machine. We jam it."
He looked at Lars, sitting beside him on the bleachers, eyes wide at the pace of it all.
Riki (quiet): "You see it?"
Lars: "Yeah. But they move too safe."
Riki: "Then we move like we have nothing to lose."
They shared a grin.
CLOSING SCENE — SEAWALL
That night, Riki dribbled by the seawall, sand scraping underfoot.
Lars joined him, no words — just rhythm.
Their bounces collided, uneven, then found a strange sync.
Lars: "You teach me rhythm..."
He spun the ball, caught it clean.
Lars: "...I'll teach you chaos."
Riki: "Deal."
The ball hit the concrete — once, twice, steady.
Two sounds, one beat.
END OF CHAPTER 5 — "The Machine of Visayas"