It was like it was locked onto the hoop by some invisible GPS, guided by a ser beam of pure basketball accuracy. It sailed gracefully over the outstretched, now completely frozen, hands of the Motijheel defenders – who were basically statues at this point – a silent, orange missile zeroing in on its target. You could practically see the collective ‘uh oh’ thought bubble forming above their heads.

  This wasn't just a shot; it was a statement.

  And the distance? Dude was way back. James had unched that thing from well beyond the three-point line, like a good couple of feet behind the arc, prime Steph Curry territory.

  That's range usually reserved for the guys who spend hours practicing those long bombs, the super confident, super skilled sharpshooters. And he was doing it without even dribbling, without any kind of warm-up rhythm, and again, looking like he was barely trying. It was the basketball equivalent of a mic drop, except the mic was an orange sphere of leather and the drop was about to be legendary.

  The ball kept flying, straight as an arrow, and finally… it reached the basket. Time seemed to slow down, like everyone was watching in slow motion, waiting for the inevitable cnk of rim or backboard.

  And then… silence.

  But not just the stunned silence of 'holy crap, did he just do that?' No, this was a deeper, weirder silence, like someone had hit the mute button on the entire world. It was the kind of quiet that happens when all other sounds just vanish, leaving you with this weird ringing in your ears and this gaping hole in the soundscape. The sound of the ball going through the net? Totally MIA.

  Or rather, it was so clean, so pure, so completely friction-free that it registered as… nothing. A sonic bck hole where a satisfying swish should have been. It was like the sound itself was too perfect to exist in reality.

  Spooky.

  Turns out, the ball had sliced through the hoop with such ridiculously perfect trajectory, such dead-center, bullseye accuracy, that it had touched absolutely nothing but net. Zero rim graze, no backboard love tap, no telltale metallic cng of the hoop.

  Just… nothing. Nada. Zilch.

  And then, a beat ter, the almost deyed ripple of the net, this gentle, slow-motion wave of white nylon, the only visual proof that the absolutely impossible, mind-blowingly improbable thing had just actually happened. It was like witnessing a magic trick, except you knew it wasn’t a trick.

  For a moment, the entire gym seemed to freeze in pce, holding its collective breath.

  Even the squeak of sneakers on the court, the rustle of clothes, the distant murmur of the crowd – all those background noises just faded away into this echoing hush. All that was left was the image of that perfectly swished three-pointer hanging suspended in time and space, like a painting, like a glitch in reality, like something you'd see in a movie but never, ever in real life. It was the kind of moment that makes you question everything you thought you knew about physics, about basketball, about the very fabric of existence itself.