"Frustration is definitely setting in," Ahsan muttered to Kiyoshi as they trudged back on defense, looking defeated. "We gotta calm down, man. Take a breath." Easier said than done when you're getting completely dominated.

  Kiyoshi just nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead with his jersey. "I know, I know, dude. But they're just… everywhere. It’s like pying against six guys out there." He was starting to feel the pressure big time.

  Motijheel's Point Guard, cool as a cucumber, stepped up to the free-throw line and calmly sank both shots. No sweat.

  Swish. Swish. Sound of points piling up against them.

  8-0. The gap was just widening, possession after possession. This was becoming a blowout before the first quarter was even halfway done.

  "This is seriously getting ugly," Chandan said from the bench, his initial pre-game enthusiasm completely repced by a look of genuine concern. The vibe on the bench was shifting rapidly.

  Nabil, the other Small Forward on the bench, sighed heavily.

  "Ugly is a major understatement. This is a straight-up massacre. We’re getting demolished." The mood was definitely hitting rock bottom.

  Idris, a Power Forward, tried to throw out a lifeline of optimism, even if it sounded a bit forced. "Hey, it's just the first quarter, guys. Long, long way to go in this game, right?" He was trying to sound positive, but even his own voice cked any real conviction. The momentum was completely, overwhelmingly, on Motijheel's side. It felt insurmountable.

  Banani inbounded the ball again, trying to break the curse. This time, Ahsan took charge and brought it up court. He decided to try a different tactic, pushing the tempo, trying to catch Motijheel off guard with some speed.

  Desperate times, desperate measures.

  He drove hard towards the basket, full speed ahead, but immediately ran smack into a solid wall of defenders. No opening, nowhere to go.

  He tried to kick the ball out to Arshad hanging out on the wing, but the pass was rushed, inaccurate, and sailed straight out of bounds. Another wasted possession.

  Another turnover.

  Banani’s third already. Unforced errors were killing them, on top of everything else.

  "Unforced errors! We're literally beating ourselves out here!" Tahera excimed, throwing her hands up in total exasperation. It wasn't just Motijheel being good, Banani was also making it way too easy for them.

  Motijheel, of course, capitalized instantly.

  Fast break, again. This time, a high-flying lob pass to their Center who caught it in mid-air and smmed it home with a thunderous dunk. Showtime.

  SLAM! The rim rattled, the crowd (mostly Motijheel supporters, it seemed) went wild.

  10-0. Five minutes gone on the clock.

  Double digits already. This was officially a disaster.

  The Motijheel bench erupted in cheers, high-fives all around.

  Their coach, a stern-faced old dude in a track suit, remained totally impassive on the outside, but you could see a tiny flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He knew they were dominating.

  On the Banani side, the silence was deafening.

  The initial pre-game energy had completely vanished, repced by this heavy, suffocating cloud of discouragement. You could cut the tension with a knife.

  "Ten-zero in five minutes," Rifat, a new Shooting Guard, whispered from the bench, his voice barely audible above the buzzing silence. "This is… this is really bad." Understatement of the century.