(Riki Dela Peña — Cebu City, 2029)
Morning in Cebu hit like payback.
The sea breeze was bright, but their wallets were empty.
Riki woke up on a thin mattress, the ceiling fan whining like a mosquito.
Lars was still asleep on the floor, curled up with a towel instead of a blanket.
Jax sat by the window eating fishballs for breakfast.
Kio was brushing his teeth using a plastic cup.
Drei stood near the door, already dressed, already annoyed.
Drei: "We have a problem."
Riki: "We always do."
Drei: "We're supposed to scout the early games. Tournament opens today."
Jax: "Can't we just watch highlights online?"
Drei: "You think Cebu uploads losses?"
Kio: "He's got a point."
They left the inn, walking past tricycles and fish stalls toward Cebu South Tech.
The streets were already awake — church bells, vendors shouting, smell of grilled pusit in the air.
Lars lagged behind, yawning.
Lars: "Bai, I dreamed we won a million pesos."
Riki: "You woke up broke though."
Lars: "So realistic."
THE MACHINE OF VISAYAS
The gym stood tall near the bay — blue steel beams, wide windows, packed bleachers even for warm-ups.
Every Cebu South Tech player wore matching white and navy kits, moving in unison.
No wasted steps. No jokes. No talking.
Just the thump of a ball in perfect rhythm.
Riki sat with his team on the top row, arms crossed.
Kio: "They really move like one person."
Jax: "Creepy, bro. Like robots."
Lars: "They even blink in sync."
Drei: "That's discipline."
Riki: "That's math pretending to be basketball."
The announcer's voice echoed.
"Opening scrimmage! Cebu South Tech versus Bacolod Polytechnic Stallions!"
Whistles blew. The crowd leaned forward.
From the first possession, it was clear.
Cebu South Tech didn't play — they executed.
Every pass crisp, every rotation pre-timed.
Their point guard never looked down. Their center boxed out like gravity itself worked for him.
Within minutes, it was 18–2.
Lars whispered, half-terrified.
Lars: "Do they even breathe?"
Jax: "Maybe they share one lung."
Kio: "We're doomed."
Riki didn't answer. He just watched.
He saw the flaw no one else did — the beauty was empty.
Everything perfect, but no heartbeat.
He leaned back, muttering under his breath:
Riki: "All timing, no soul."
Drei glanced at him.
Drei: "You see a weakness?"
Riki: "Yeah. But beating them means playing louder than they can think."
THE LESSON IN CONTROL
During halftime, the Cebu State coach — a tall man in glasses — gathered his players.
Even his huddle looked rehearsed.
He pointed once. Everyone nodded once.
Then back to business.
Jax whistled low.
Jax: "We're supposed to play against that?"
Kio: "We can't even agree on lunch."
Lars: "We'll improvise."
Drei: "Improvisation doesn't beat robots."
Riki: "Then we make them glitch."
They sat through the rest of the blowout in silence.
By the final buzzer — 72–31 — even the crowd clapped in quiet respect.
Cebu didn't celebrate. They just walked off, calm, methodical, already re-hydrating.
Lars: "They don't even smile when they win?"
Riki: "They don't play for fun. They play to prove math works."
Drei: "So what's our plan?"
Riki: "Be chaos."
Kio: "That's not a plan."
Riki: "It's Flowstate."
LARS' LESSON
Outside the gym, the afternoon heat shimmered off the concrete.
Lars stood by a parked jeep, mimicking the Cebu point guard's motion.
Short dribble. Pivot. Fake. Bounce.
Lars: "Their rhythm's crazy. Tight as a drum."
Riki: "Yeah, but they don't know how to miss on purpose."
Lars: "Why would you miss on purpose?"
Riki: "To find the real beat. Not the one the whistle gives you."
Lars stared at him, confused but listening.
For the first time, Riki sounded like a coach.
Not a perfect one — but a man who'd learned the hard way.
AFTER THE GAME
That night, they ate barbecue by the seawall again.
No noise, just quiet chewing and salt wind.
The tournament bracket hung over them like bad weather.
Kio: "We're in the same group as them."
Jax: "Cool, so we're basically background characters."
Lars: "Nah, bai. Backgrounds make the scene look good."
Drei: "Try harder on metaphors."
Riki sat back, watching the tide.
Riki: "Machines break eventually. We just have to be the reason."
The sea answered with a wave — steady, patient, waiting.
END OF CHAPTER 7 — "The Machine Cracks"