The Millvoque Bullets unleashed their twin towers tonight, just as Coach Crawford predicted.

At seven feet, Benny Porter was a brick wall in the paint. At seven-foot-one, Blake Larez was a skyscraper with a mean streak.

Malik leaped against Larez for the opening jump ball, but Larez swatted it to Jules Holloway with ease. Holloway, all sinew and snarl, zipped a crisp pass to John Adebayo-Kambon. The MVP's court vision was surgical—his knack for double-doubles, even triple-doubles, was no secret. He lofted a high-arcing pass to Larez in the post. The big man caught it, pivoted, and detonated a two-handed slam that shook the rim.

The Roarers' offense kicked off with Ryan Carter running point, as always. Holloway locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile. With Larez and Porter clogging the paint and Kambon lurking, the lane was a no-go zone. Ryan's scalp prickled—this wasn't just a defense; it was a fortress. Driving was suicide. So, he turned to Plan B: back down Holloway, muscle forward two steps, and spin for a mid-range fadeaway to test the waters. But Holloway's physicality was suffocating, his frame a wall of resistance. Clang.

The shot rattled out.

The Bullets pounced after securing the rebound.

No team in the league turned defense into offense faster, and nobody did it better than Kambon. He already led the break, catching the outlet with a full head of steam. His strides devoured hardwood, each step like a sprinting gazelle with a linebacker's body. Averaging eight fast-break scores a game—the most in the league, a terrifying number—this was his kingdom.

By the time the Roarers scrambled to set their defense, Kambon was already past half court. One dribble, two dribbles, his momentum unstoppable. He crossed the arc, planted just inside the free-throw line, and launched himself skyward.

For a moment, he seemed to hang there—suspended, weightless—before unleashing a one-handed tomahawk that detonated through the rim. The slam echoed like a cannon shot.

Kamara, sprinting desperately in pursuit, slowed to a stop. He didn't even bother contesting. Why risk embarrassment against that kind of power?

The message was clear. The reigning MVP wasn't easing into this game. He was here to dominate.

The scoreboard flashed 4–0, and the Roarers could already feel the mountain in front of them.

The game settled into its rhythm, every possession a test of nerve and execution. After Kambon's opening fireworks, the Roarers clawed back with a steady mid-range jumper from Darius, finally breaking through the Bullets' wall. But momentum was a fragile thing. The Bullets struck back the only way they knew how—defense feeding offense. A quick steal turned into another runaway bucket for Kambon, and on the following trip, Keith Milton, the Midrange Maestro, rose smoothly into his textbook jumper.

Net. Just like that, the scoreboard read 8–2.

The Roarers regrouped. This time, the ball found its way back to Darius at the top. He handed it off to Ryan, then planted himself firmly into Holloway's chest, carving out a screen. That half-second of daylight was all Ryan needed. He caught the ball, no hesitation, and exploded forward. Milton, assigned to him on the switch, barely had time to blink before Ryan's first step shredded the gap.

By the time Ryan reached the elbow, he already knew what waited inside: a forest of limbs, two seven-footers stationed like towers, with Kambon waiting on the side, ready to help.

Charging into that mess was suicide. So Ryan rose from midrange, pure and unbothered.

Swish.

The Roarers had their answer. 4–8.

But Milton had plenty to say about that. On the very next trip, he calmly squared up, rose, and buried another jumper. Two for two. No wasted motion, no wasted breath—the man was a metronome from 15 feet.

The Roarers kept probing for cracks. Ryan brought the ball up, Holloway glued to him every step. At the three-point line, Ryan flashed a sharp jab step, forcing Holloway's weight to shift—subtle, but deadly. In that instant, Ryan exploded past.

Holloway was one of the league's premier on-ball defenders, but even he wasn't a hundred percent able to contain Ryan. That lightning-quick first step was simply too much—any slight shift in balance, and Ryan was already gone.

Inside the arc, danger closed in. Blake Larez, all seven-one of him, surged forward, arms stretched like a fortress wall. The Bullets weren't about to let Ryan get another clean mid-range look—this was a trap, set well in advance.

But Ryan was ready. Two quick dribbles to the right, then a sudden, screeching stop. Larez's momentum betrayed him, his giant frame drifting helplessly past like a ship missing its dock.

Ryan rose smoothly, release soft as silk, the ball sailing over Larez's fingertips. For a heartbeat, the arena held its breath.

Swish. White nylon bloomed like fireworks.

The crowd erupted, Iron Vault Arena rattling with noise. For the first time, the Roarers looked ready to punch back.

Tonight's ABA marquee matchup had the legendary broadcast duo on the call: Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy and his partner, Sammy "Quicklip" Lee.

Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy leaned into the mic, his gravel voice booming:

"Looks like Ryan Carter's decided to duel Milton shot for shot tonight! Both of them two-for-two from the midrange."

His partner, Sammy "Quicklip" Lee, jumped in without missing a beat:

"You can't blame Ryan. That paint is locked tighter than a bank vault. With Porter, Larez, and Kambon camped inside, attacking the rim's not just tough—it's reckless. The midrange is his only weapon right now."

Mad Dog chuckled darkly. "Not a single three-pointer attempted yet from either team. The question is—who's going to blink first and test that perimeter? And more importantly—who's going to make it?"

The Bullets wasted no time reasserting control. It was Kambon again—the reigning MVP, the nightmare matchup no team in the ABA had figured out.

The Roarers packed the lane, bodies flying in front of him, but it didn't matter. Kambon lowered his shoulder, absorbed the contact, and finished through two defenders like they were traffic cones. He was inevitable. You could wall him off, bump him, send help from the baseline—it never mattered. Kambon always found a way to score in the paint.

Back on the other end, it was the Roarers' turn to attack.

This time, Darius took control of the ball. The Roarers relied on their backcourt duo—Ryan and Darius—taking turns to initiate the offense. If Ryan shouldered the load alone in the early stretches, the toll would drain him, leaving little fuel in the tank by the fourth quarter.

The matchup was favorable. Keith Milton, deadly as a shooter but less reliable as a defender, picked up Darius at the top of the arc. Holloway stayed glued to Ryan off the ball, arms twitching, always on alert.

Darius sized Milton up. A jab step. A hesitation dribble. Milton bit—just a tilt in his stance, but it was enough. Darius exploded forward, slicing toward the foul line.

The moment he entered the paint, the trap snapped shut. Larez and Porter, the twin towers, collapsed inward, and Kambon lurked a step away, ready to swallow him whole. Three giants at once.

But Darius was prepared. As the defense caved in, he fired a laser pass to the left corner. Waiting there was Kamara.

Kamara had been quiet—no points, no attempts, and memories of a disastrous last outing hanging over him like a storm cloud. But this time he didn't hesitate. Catch, rise, release.

The shot arced high, a clean spiral that seemed to pause at its peak before dropping.

Swish.

The Iron Vault erupted, fans leaping to their feet. Kamara's fist pumped as he roared, shaking off the ghost of his previous struggles. He screamed to the rafters, then slapped palms with Darius. Redemption in motion.

Up in the broadcast booth, Jack "Mad Dog" Murphy leaned into the mic, his gravelly tone cutting through the feed.

"And there it is—the first three of the night, courtesy of Kamara for the Roarers!"

His partner, Sammy "Quicklip" Lee, chimed in right away. "That's a big one, Mad Dog. Kamara was ice-cold last game, but if he's finding his stroke early tonight, that could change the entire dynamic."

But celebration turned to punishment in seconds. The Bullets were too ruthless, too seasoned. Holloway grabbed the ball, fired the inbound, and Kambon was already in motion. He tore down the court, a runaway freight train. Kamara and Darius lingered for a heartbeat too long in their celebration—fatal mistake.

By the time they sprinted back, it was too late. One dribble, two strides, and Kambon detonated at the rim again. Another thunderous dunk, the kind that rattled the glass and sent a clear message: no slip-ups allowed. Against the defending champions, even a second's lapse could cost you.

On the sideline, Coach Crawford erupted, his voice a whipcrack over the noise. "Focus! Lock in!" he barked, targeting Kamara and Darius with fire in his eyes.

Seven minutes flew by, and the game had turned into a shootout. The Roarers had no answer for Kambon's relentless drives to the rim, nor could they slow Milton's deadly midrange. But on their end, the Roarers spread the wealth—everyone chipped in, scoring from all angles.

Coach Crawford signaled for a timeout.

The scoreboard read: Roarers 25, Bullets 28.

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