Anderson, the once-so-cocky small forward, had completely defted. All that swagger, all that arrogance? Poof, gone with the wind. Now, he just stood there, staring bnkly at James with this expression of utter bewilderment. His jaw was hanging sck, like it had unhinged itself, and his brain was clearly struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of what he had just witnessed. It was like his operating system had crashed and needed a hard reboot.

  Nikhil, the perpetually grumpy power forward, was the only one on the Motijheel team who seemed to react with something other than pure, unadulterated shock and horror. His usual scowl, which was already legendary, had somehow deepened into levels previously thought impossible.

  But there was something else flickering in his eyes now, behind the grumpiness. A flicker of… understanding? Maybe even… resignation. He watched James, his gaze intense, almost… respectful. It was like he was grudgingly acknowledging that they were no longer pying the same game, and maybe, just maybe, he was starting to get it.

  The silence hanging over the Motijheel side of the court was heavy, oppressive, like you could reach out and touch it. It was the silence of defeat settling in, the silence of quiet surrender before anyone even officially said the words.

  They had shown up expecting to py a basketball game. But they were quickly, and terrifyingly, realizing they were up against something… way beyond basketball. Something… almost supernatural.

  And James, this quiet, unassuming newcomer from Banani, was clearly the source of all this unbelievable stuff. He wasn't just scoring in ways that shouldn't be possible. He was defending in ways that defied logic. He was literally rewriting the rules of the game right in front of their eyes.

  And they were completely, utterly, and hopelessly clueless about how to stop him. Or even… what the heck he actually was. It was starting to feel less like a basketball game and more like facing off against a cheat code in real life.

  Okay, so scratch what we thought about James being just a three-point wonder, right? Turns out, those threes were just the warm-up act, like the opening band before the headliner. Now, this dude was pulling out the whole freakin’ pybook of… abilities. Seriously, "skills" just felt way too basic to describe what was unfolding on the court. It was like watching a video game character suddenly unlock cheat codes.

  Motijheel’s offense was back on, but you could practically see the sweat dripping off Salman. Dude was still tripping about that mid-air steal James pulled off. He was trying to run a py, but it was more like a nervous twitch-dribble situation. Every couple of seconds, his eyes darted over to James, like he expected him to teleport out of nowhere and snatch the ball again. You could practically hear Salman thinking, "Is he gonna do it again? Is he gonna do it again?!" The anxiety was palpable.

  "Screen! Saim, screen! Now!" Salman yelled, his voice cracking like a teenager's at karaoke night. He sounded way too stressed, like he’d just chugged five energy drinks and realized he had a pop quiz he forgot to study for.