Iron Vault Arena.

The game between the Iron City Roarers and the Millvoque Bullets had boiled down to its final minute.

Roarers 112, Bullets 110.

The Bullets' coach signaled timeout, clipboard scratching out hurried diagrams. The huddle was tight, voices sharp. When the buzzer pierced the air, the play was set.

As players broke from the huddle, Kambon clenched his fists, his voice low but venomous:

"Let's show them what real champions look like."

The ball returned to play. Bullets' possession. Holloway brought it across half court, deliberate, patient, searching. He waved Milton up to the wing. The message was clear: their midrange assassin would take this one.

Milton caught the entry pass, squared to the rim, and immediately tested Gibson with a jab. Gibson didn't flinch. His stance was wide, his arms spread, his balance coiled like a spring.

Milton bounced once, twice, then rose into his familiar rhythm dribble. A feint right, a lean left—smooth as silk. Gibson mirrored every twitch.

The crowd roared as Milton pulled into his signature fade, shoulders angling toward the baseline. For a heartbeat, it looked inevitable.

But Gibson closed the gap, chest into hip, one hand rising high to cloud the release. The ball left Milton's fingers under heavy pressure, the shot flat, the arc compromised.

Clang.

Off the rim.

Gibson boxed out, muscling Milton off the lane, then ripped down the rebound with two hands. The arena detonated—half in relief, half in disbelief.

On the sideline, Crawford's expression didn't crack into a smile, but the small nod he gave said everything. This was why Gibson was part of the closing five. Not for fireworks. Not for highlight reels. But because he could guard Milton. When the game tightened, when the opponent's best scorer demanded the ball, Gibson was the one who could stand in front of him and make the stop. One possession at a time, that was how you won.

Gibson wasted no time after the stop. The rebound barely settled in his hands before he snapped a two-hand outlet forward. The ball zipped across half court, and Ryan was already streaking down the middle lane like a flash of steel cutting through fog.

The Bullets scrambled. Holloway pointed frantically, Milton rotated too slow, and that was all Ryan needed. One push dribble, then another—his sneakers screeching against the hardwood as he shifted gears. Near the arc, he snapped into a vicious crossover, the ball snapping from right to left so violently the defender stumbled back a step. The lane opened.

Ryan exploded forward. One long stride, then he gathered. His body rose, coiled and uncoiled, every muscle surging upward with controlled fury.

But Kambon was there. Again.

The Bullets' titan had sprinted back with impossible speed, his shadow looming over Ryan's ascent. Fans roared, knowing what was coming—the chase-down block, the hammer that had broken so many drives tonight. Kambon's hand reached, stretching like a guillotine blade about to drop.

Only this time, Ryan had read it.

Suspended in midair, he twisted. The ball shifted from his right hand to his left in one smooth, almost liquid motion. His torso leaned away, his knees scissoring as he hung impossibly long, pulling his frame away from Kambon's swiping arm. For an instant, it was as if time fractured: Kambon's palm slashed past empty space, Ryan curling his body just beyond the reach of destruction.

Then—release.

Ryan flicked the ball upward off the glass, his wrist snapping with a painter's precision. The ball kissed the square, rolled gently off the rim, and dropped through the net.

The arena detonated.

Ryan landed, chest heaving, eyes locked on Kambon. It wasn't just a bucket; it was a declaration. He could match the champion's power with cunning, answer brute force with craft.

Roarers 114, Bullets 110. 38 seconds left.

And the battle of wills pressed on.

The Bullets wasted no time. The ball was inbounded with urgency, the clock ticking down from thirty-eight. They pushed it hard, fanning out across the floor like a fast-moving tide. At the top of the arc, the ball found the hands of their cornerstone—John Adebayo-Kambon.

The crowd leaned forward. Everyone knew what was coming.

Kamara was the defender assigned to the impossible task. Strong, rangy, but still undersized against the reigning MVP. He braced himself as Kambon lowered a shoulder. Then came the spin.

It wasn't just a move. It was violence compressed into motion. Kambon planted his foot, pivoted, and in a blur of muscle and grace, he whipped his body around. Kamara staggered, his balance shattered, the MVP's back already flashing past him. The spin was too fast, too sharp—he was gone.

But just as the lane opened, just as Kambon's chest faced daylight, a shadow cut across his vision.

Ryan.

He came not from straight ahead, but from the blindside, the slashing angle no one anticipates. Kambon, mid-spin, never saw it. The ball, momentarily exposed in his right hand, floated into space—into danger.

Ryan pounced. His arms shot forward like coiled steel. Two hands engulfed the ball, ripping it free with a primal force. One heartbeat Kambon was in control, the next he was empty-handed.

"STRIP! Ryan just took it from him!" Mad Dog's voice cracked with disbelief. "He didn't block it, didn't poke it—he stole his soul!"

The MVP froze for half a breath, stunned. Kamara, realizing the miracle, scrambled backward on quick feet. And Ryan, without hesitation, fired the ball out, a bullet pass to his recovering teammate.

Kamara caught it in stride, chest heaving, eyes blazing. He had only one thought. Run.

He bolted upcourt, every step a drumbeat, defenders trailing in desperation. The rim loomed. The arena inhaled.

Kamara never slowed. One last stride, his body launching skyward, legs scissoring. He rose high, clutching the ball with both hands, and detonated.

BOOM.

The slam thundered through Iron Vault Arena. The rim buckled, metal groaning, swinging forward and back like a pendulum caught in a storm.

Mad Dog's voice was pure chaos. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! KAMARA WITH A SLEDGEHAMMER JAM! Off the rip by Ryan—off the theft of the year! THIS PLACE IS LOSING ITS MIND!"

Fans were out of their seats, a sea of fists and screams. The bench mob spilled onto the sideline, jumping, chest-bumping, howling.

On the other end, Kambon stood frozen, jaw tight, fists clenched, Ryan had turned his dominance into humiliation.

And as Kamara swung off the rim, pounding his chest, the scoreboard shifted: Roarers 116, Bullets 112.

28 seconds to play.

And the Iron Vault was shaking.

The Iron Vault Arena trembled as the Bullets' coach signaled for his final timeout. The horn blared, but even over the sound, the roar of the Roarers' faithful filled the air. They were already singing, voices united, chants rolling like waves. Victory was close enough to taste.

On the Roarers' bench, Crawford stood with his arms crossed, voice sharp but calm.

"Guard the arc. No threes. Gibson, lock Milton. If Kambon goes downhill, foul him—make him earn it at the line. No and-ones."

The players nodded, sweat dripping, lungs burning, yet eyes sharp. One more stand.

Timeout is over, the game resumes.

The ball was inbounded. Holloway took it at the top of the arc, shoulders squared, dribble steady. Across from him, Ryan crouched low, eyes fixed, body coiled. The duel was set.

Holloway tested the waters, rocking the dribble side to side, searching for a crack. Ryan didn't bite. No easy lanes. Holloway jabbed right, then snapped back left, stepping into a quick sidestep three. For a heartbeat, the arena gasped.

Ryan exploded forward. His closeout was lightning, arm fully extended, body flying past the release point. Holloway flinched—too risky. He pulled the ball down.

The shot was gone. The clock bled.

Holloway pivoted, scanning. He found Milton curling off a screen, but Gibson was glued to him, chest tight, arm shadowing every motion. Milton caught for only a moment before Gibson's weight smothered him. No dribble. No lift. No window.

The shot clock ticked down—twelve… eleven…

Kambon demanded it. A roar from the paint: "Here!" His massive frame sealed Kamara, one arm extended, target hand open. Holloway fired it in.

Kambon caught. One bounce. He lowered his shoulder, the floor shaking under the impact. Kamara staggered, bracing but giving ground. Another dribble, another shove, and Kambon carved his way to the restricted area.

The crowd rose, knowing what was coming. He coiled, both hands gripping the ball like an executioner's hammer. The rim trembled in anticipation.

Kamara launched his body into him, desperate, but it was Malik who arrived a heartbeat later. Perfect timing—he chopped down across Kambon's arms just as the MVP gathered to dunk.

The whistle split the air. Foul.

The dunk never came. The ball squirted free, bouncing harmlessly across the lane. Kambon landed hard, glaring, veins bulging in his neck, but there would be no three-point play. No statement slam.

Crawford exhaled, the tiniest nod of approval escaping him. Exactly as drawn. If Kambon wanted points, they would come the hard way—standing alone at the stripe, under the weight of ten thousand voices screaming numbers into his ears.

Nineteen seconds left. Kambon stepped to the line, the weight of the arena pressing down on his shoulders. He took the ball, eyes narrowing, and began his routine. The seconds bled away on the giant scoreboard, the noise swelling with every heartbeat.

With eleven seconds left on the count, he finally rose into his motion. The ball arced, hit the front rim, bounced twice on the iron, then spilled out. The crowd roared as if it were a game-winning shot for the home team.

Kambon scowled, grabbing the next ball from the referee. His breathing quickened. This time, his nerves betrayed him. He fired too fast, the ball slipping awkwardly from his fingertips. It missed everything—an airball. Gasps, then laughter, then a tidal wave of cheers cascaded down.

The score stayed locked: 116–112. No timeouts left for the Bullets.

The Roarers inbounded calmly. The Bullets, recognizing the futility of fouling, backed off. Four points down with nineteen seconds left, the fight was gone.

Ryan took the ball, dribbled across half court with deliberate slowness, then simply stood near the logo, pounding the ball with steady rhythm, eyes on the clock. The noise in the arena swelled, fans already on their feet, chanting victory songs.

The final seconds melted away. Three. Two. One.

The horn blared.

Final: Roarers 116, Bullets 112.

A clash of titans, a duel between the East and West's Players of the Week, ending with Ryan standing tall, smiling as the confetti began to fall.

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