But hold up, it wasn't just a reach, okay? This was some kind of projection magic. His hand, and I swear I'm not exaggerating here, looked like the skin was stretching. Becoming almost see-through, like translucent vellum or something.

  It just kept going, reaching outwards, further and further, like it was glitching through the ws of physics. Seriously, it was like his palm had suddenly transformed into a telescopic grabber arm, shooting out to intercept that garbage pass. And then, BAM! Contact.

  The moment of truth.

  And get this – it wasn't a fumble, not a weak tip, not even a desperate, st-second deflection. Nope.

  It was a straight-up, clean catch. Like, immacute reception levels of catch. The basketball, which was literally seconds away from becoming the sideline's problem, was suddenly, impossibly, snuggled right in James's hand.

  And get this, he was like, miles away from where any normal human arm could even think about reaching. It was like he straight-up teleported his hand across space and time to snag that ball. The sound? Weirdly muted.

  Not that thwack you usually hear. It was softer, like… his palm didn't just catch the ball, it like, absorbed it. Spooky, right?

  Instant silence.

  Like someone hit the mute button on the entire Motijheel squad. Their ughter? Vanished. Just died in their throats, choked out by pure, unadulterated "WTF-just-happened" astonishment. Number 7, who was mid-sentence, probably about to drop another sick burn, just froze. Mid-word.

  Mouth still hanging open, like his sarcastic smirk got stuck and morphed into a gaping hole of disbelief. His eyes, which were all narrowed and smug a second ago, widened like saucers. Whites showing all around, like he'd just seen a ghost.

  Or maybe, like he was the ghost.

  Number 5, who was in the middle of a full-blown, booming ugh – the kind that shakes the whole gym – totally choked. Started sputtering like a broken engine.

  His face went from red to this weird puce color, like he'd just swallowed a chili pepper whole. That booming ugh? Gone. Repced by this strangled cough, like he'd swallowed his own tongue in shock.

  He pointed a shaky finger at James, eyes bugging out so far you could practically see his brain. "Did… did you guys SEE that?!" he croaked, voice barely above a whisper. "Did anyone else just witness… that?!" Dude looked like he was about to have an existential crisis right there on the court.

  Number 12, the self-procimed ‘Cross-Under Dribble of Doom’ joke king, stood frozen solid. That smug smirk? Completely erased.

  Repced by pure, unadulterated bewilderment. His jaw, which was all set in a confident sneer like five seconds ago, now hung sck, like a broken door hinge. He blinked, like, a million times rapidly, like he was trying to reboot his eyeballs, trying to make sense of the impossible image burned onto his retinas.

  "No… no freaking way," he mumbled, shaking his head slowly, mechanically. Like a broken robot doll. "That’s… that’s not… humanly possible." Dude was glitching in real-time.