But even Robi’s Herculean, borderline superhuman efforts couldn’t stop the inevitable. Couldn't stem the green tide. Motijheel’s outside shooting, which had started off merely “good,” suddenly decided to go supernova.

  Their guards were finding open looks like they had GPS for open space, their passes were getting crisper than a freshly ironed shirt, and the scoreboard… oh, the scoreboard. It just kept ticking upwards, relentlessly, inexorably, mocking Banani with every single digit it added.

  BZZZZZZ! The buzzer finally wailed, a sound that was both a relief and a death knell.

  Signaling the end of the first quarter. The score fshed up on the board in all its horrifying glory: 23-2. Twenty-three to two.

  A massacre. A straight-up basketball bloodbath. A humiliation so profound it might require therapy for years to come.

  A stark, brutal, neon-sign-in-your-face illustration of the colossal, Grand-Canyon-sized gap between these two teams.

  Robi trudged towards the bench, head bowed so low he was practically staring at his own sneakers, sweat dripping off his brow like he’d just emerged from a sauna fully clothed. He’d given it everything.

  Every ounce of strength, every drop of sweat, every st flicker of determination he possessed. Poured it all out onto the court. And it wasn't enough.

  Not even remotely close. Not even in the same gaxy as enough.

  He basically face-pnted onto the bench, sucking in air like a goldfish out of water.

  His lungs were on fire, his legs felt like jelly, and his entire body was just screaming for him to stop moving, forever. He lifted his head, his gaze locking onto Tahera’s, his eyes practically begging, pleading for some kind of answer, some tiny sliver of hope in this green-jerseyed apocalypse.

  “Twenty-three to two,” he managed to croak out, the words thick with defeat, tasting like ash in his mouth.

  “What… what do we even do?” It wasn’t just a question; it was a full-blown existential crisis disguised as a basketball inquiry.

  Tahera knelt down beside him, her expression grim as a tax audit, but with this weird undercurrent of… something else. Resolute? Yeah, maybe.

  “You were amazing, Robi. Seriously. You were the only one out there who looked like they even knew which direction the basket was, let alone how to score.”

  She gave him a quick, genuine nod. “You showed them we’re not just gonna… roll over and die, or whatever.” She paused, her gaze sweeping over the rest of the team, who were slumped on the bench looking like they’d just collectively watched their pet goldfish get eaten by a cat.

  “But…” she sighed, the weight of the situation settling visibly on her shoulders. “You’re right. This… this isn’t working.

  We need to change something. Like, drastically. Code red, emergency level change.

  ” Her eyes flicked towards the end of the bench, where James was now standing, leaning against the wall with this super-smug, almost cartoonishly confident smirk pstered across his face. “Luckily,” Tahera said, her voice suddenly hardening, a hint of steel creeping into her tone, “I think we might just… have a nuclear option.”