Back on the court, Lucas Graves backpedaled slowly, eyes locked ahead, expression cold—like ice pulled from deep water. No smile. No arrogance. Just sharpened focus.
Then he lifted one arm and pointed.
Directly at Ethan Albarado.
Across the lane, Ethan caught the signal. His response?
A grin—small, dangerous. The kind that meant he knew.
He raised his hand and pointed right back, two fingers to his chest.
"Again?" Lucas called out, voice carrying over the roaring crowd like a challenge.
"Always," Ethan shot back, without pause.
(He trusts me. We're not here to play.
We're here to define something.)
The gym, quiet only a heartbeat ago, began to pulse again. Confusion from the earlier play had melted into realization—and awe. The crowd was rising like a wave, row by row, as if they sensed something more was coming.
Roars started to build. Cameras lifted. Chants formed on tongues.
But the Vultures weren't going down without a scream.
