Dude's built like a brick house, six-foot-two of pure muscle. Seriously, he’s like that oak tree in your grandma's backyard that's survived, like, three hurricanes and still looks unfazed. Except this hurricane was made of super-fast dudes in green shorts.

  He pnted himself right in the post, feet shoulder-width apart, hands up, ready to catch anything thrown his way, or at least try to. The Motijheel squad? They were all over him like those annoying fruit flies that appear out of nowhere when you leave a banana out for five seconds too long. Buzzing, irritating, and way too many of them.

  They were quick, like, annoyingly quick, zipping around him like they were on roller skates while Robi was stuck in slow-mo. Agile? Please. These guys were practically ninjas.

  But Robi? He had weight. Like, actual, physical mass. He was a wall.

  A big, sweaty, determined wall that they couldn't just phase through, no matter how hard they tried to zoom past him.

  "ROBI! POST! HIM! UP!" Ahsan’s voice cracked like a middle schooler’s, echoing across the gym. He was standing way out on the three-point line, waving his arms like a wacky inftable tube man, desperately trying to get something, anything resembling an offense going. Honestly, at this point, a toddler scribbling on a whiteboard might have had a better offensive strategy.

  Robi, bless his heart, just roared back, his voice a deep rumble that cut through the general panic in the air, "BALL! I'M OPEN!" "Open" is a strong word, Robi. More like "vaguely accessible if you consider being triple-teamed 'open'." He had two defenders glued to him like they were trying to win a contest for who could get closest without actually merging. Draped all over him like those bargain bin suits your uncle wears to weddings – cheap, clingy, and definitely not fttering.

  Meanwhile, Kiyoshi was pying bumper cars with the Motijheel perimeter defense, trying to weave his way through their annoyingly coordinated wall of arms and legs.

  He finally managed to peek through the chaos and spotted Robi wrestling in the paint. A tiny spark of hope flickered in Kiyoshi’s brain, like that single bar of Wi-Fi you get when you’re miles from civilization. Robi was literally the only person on their team who looked like they might accidentally score a point if the stars aligned.

  He had to get him the ball. It was their only shot, however long and desperate that shot might be.

  Kiyoshi pulled off a pump fake so convincing, even he almost fell for it.

  He sidestepped a defender who bought it hook, line, and sinker, leaving him momentarily in the dust. Then, he whipped a pass inside. "Whipped" might be too generous. It wasn't exactly a Steph Curry ser beam, more like a… gentle toss with a prayer attached. A lob, arcing high enough to just clear the outstretched, grabby hands of the Motijheel defenders, who were basically pying human limbo under the basket.