Most iconic part was from catching ball from Kiyoshi to throw shot for three point all happened in less than 1.5 second. It was that fast.

  The Motijheel pyers were frozen solid, like statues carved out of pure, unadulterated shock and disbelief. Number 9’s fake chuckle died a quick and embarrassing death in his throat, repced by this strangled, wheezing gasp. His eyes, already bugging out from the 'King's Palm' incident, now seemed to be trying to escape his face altogether, straining in their sockets to process the utterly bonkers reality unfolding right in front of them.

  His jaw, which had been hanging loose with bewilderment, now dropped even further, practically unhinged, threatening to detach from his face and roll onto the floor. Dude looked like he’d just seen a ghost… or maybe something way weirder.

  Number 7, who had been strutting around mid-mock like he owned the court, screeched to a halt, his momentum carrying him forward a couple of awkward inches before his feet finally skidded to a stop on the shiny floor.

  His arms, which had been filing around in theatrical mockery, now just hung there, limp and useless, like defted pool noodles. His face, which had been all twisted up in this smug grin, now morphed into a frozen mask of pure horror, his features stiff as cardboard, his eyes wide open and unblinking, like he’d stared directly into the abyss and the abyss had winked back. The smugness? Gone.

  Vanished. Reduced to atoms.

  Number 5, still recovering from his earlier ughing fit – remember that guy? – choked again, but this time, no ughter was involved.

  Oh no, this was something else entirely. It was a pathetic whimper, a sound of pure, unadulterated fear bubbling up from his gut. His booming, obnoxious ughter, which had filled the gym just like, five seconds ago, was now repced by this thin, reedy noise, barely audible above the ringing silence.

  He kept darting his eyes between James and the basket, then back to James again, like he was desperately searching for a hidden camera, for Ashton Kutcher to pop out and yell "Punk'd!". He needed an expnation, any expnation, to make sense of the completely senseless. His brain was officially fried.

  Number 12, the ‘Cross-Under Dribble’ comedian, just stood there, completely motionless, body stiff as a board, gaze locked onto the net, like he was hypnotized by the lingering ripple of the nylon. His mind, usually so quick with the sarcastic zingers and witty comebacks, seemed to have completely short-circuited, his thoughts grinding to a screeching halt. His internal monologue, which was usually a non-stop stand-up routine, was repced by a single, repeating loop of bewildered incomprehension: Did… did that actually happen? Seriously? Did… did that really just happen? It was like his brain was stuck on repeat, pying the same broken record of disbelief over and over again.

  The silence stretched out, becoming almost physically painful, thick with unspoken questions, with dawning realizations, with this chilling understanding that something profoundly unnatural, something bordering on straight-up supernatural, was actually happening right before their very eyes. The air itself felt heavy, charged with unspoken dread and a growing sense of unease. This wasn't just a lucky shot; this was something… else.

  Something weird. Something very weird.