It’s aimed with pinpoint accuracy, surgically precise, directly at that minuscule, almost imaginary opening James had conjured into existence with a flick of his wrist and a shift of his weight. Talk about trust. Talk about basketball telepathy. Talk about pure, unadulterated, next-level skill. This is what they write songs about, what they make highlight reels out of.

  Lut and Saim, realizing with agonizing slowness, their brains processing information at roughly the speed of dial-up internet in the year 2003, what’s actually happening, lunge, desperately trying to intercept. Their hands reach out, slow and clumsy, like they’re wading through peanut butter in slow motion, their expressions a silent, Edvard Munch-esque scream of “NOOOOOOOO! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!”

  But as, poor Lut and Saim, it is tragically, hiriously too te. The pass is already in the air, locked on target, trajectory perfect, fate sealed, destiny written in the basketball stars.

  King’s Palm. Prepare for deployment. Incoming heat.

  James’s hand erupts. Explodes. Teleports into existence, seemingly out of thin air. Blur of pure, unadulterated motion, faster than the speed of thought, faster than your brain can even register. Seriously, it’s like watching a hummingbird’s wings in reverse slow-motion, except instead of wings, it’s a human hand, and instead of fluttering, it’s intercepting a basketball with the speed, precision, and sheer coolness of a ninja snatching a fly out of mid-air with chopsticks, while blindfolded, and probably juggling fming torches at the same time.

  He snatches the ball mid-flight, plucks it cleanly, effortlessly, right out of the path of the reaching, slow-motion defenders’ pathetic, filing attempts at interception. It’s like freaking bck magic, straight-up sorcery. Dark arts of basketball, performed live on court.

  One moment, the ball is hurtling towards a triple-team induced defensive bck hole, destined for oblivion. The next, it’s nestled securely in James’s grasp, like it was always meant to be there, pulled by invisible strings of destiny, raw, unadulterated talent, and maybe a little bit of cosmic intervention.

  The crowd? Total, utter, complete meltdown. Another collective gasp rips through the stands, followed by a stunned, almost reverent silence that hangs in the air for approximately half a second, before erupting into a deafening, earth-shattering roar that threatens to peel the paint off the walls.

  They’re not just witnessing basketball anymore, folks. They’re witnessing miracles. They’re witnessing the ws of physics being politely, yet firmly, rewritten in real-time. Triple-teamed? Pfft. Child’s py. Amateur hour. Intercepted pass? Please. James just turned a supposedly game-ending defensive trap into an offensive highlight reel that will be repyed in super slow-motion on sports channels for decades to come, maybe even centuries. This dude isn’t just unreal. He’s from another dimension. He's pying a different game entirely.

  And now he’s got the rock. Still technically triple-teamed, yes, technically surrounded by a bewildered, slightly traumatized trio of Motijheel defenders who are probably questioning their life choices at this point. Still outnumbered, out-muscled (maybe not), and theoretically out-strategized (definitely not).

  Lut, Saim, and Anderson are glued to him like barnacles on a boat, faces etched with grim determination, bodies coiled tight, poised to… well, to do something. Anything. To finally, finally, for the love of all that is holy and basketball-reted, stop him. This has to be the time, right? Third time’s the charm, right? Please?