The buzzing of the arena was deafening, a sound that filled the air with energy as the Daegu Thunderwolves lined up on the court. The bright lights glinted off the polished wooden floor, and the rhythmic drumming of the crowd echoed in Eun-woo’s chest. He stood at the edge of the sideline, his sharp eyes scanning the floor, calculating every move, every potential play. His mind was a whirlwind of strategy, precision, and fierce determination.

It was the final quarter, and the Thunderwolves were up against their fiercest rivals—the Seoul Titans, led by none other than the opposing coach everyone in the league was whispering about. Eun-woo could feel the pressure radiating through his body, but it wasn’t the pressure of the game that weighed most heavily on him. No, it was something far more personal.

That coach. The name burned like acid in his mind. Eun-woo had never been able to stand the man. The way he swaggered onto the court with that infuriatingly playful grin, the way his players adored him, the way he seemed to make the game look effortless. It sickened Eun-woo. He had built his career on blood, sweat, and strategy—a meticulously crafted machine designed for nothing less than domination. And here was this man, making it all look so damn easy.

"Focus, Eun-woo," he muttered under his breath, the words nearly lost in the roar of the crowd as he pushed the thoughts away. The game wasn’t over yet. The Thunderwolves were leading by five, but the Titans weren’t finished. Not by a long shot.

Eun-woo’s gaze flicked over to the opposite sideline, where his rival was pacing, hands in his pockets, a relaxed smirk playing on his lips. The crowd’s energy seemed to swell around him, almost feeding off his magnetic presence. The way his team responded to him, how they looked to him for reassurance and guidance—it was like they were all part of a bigger picture that Eun-woo couldn’t understand. It irritated him. It was so... unstructured. So... uncalculated.

"Get it together," he grumbled, his fingers twitching at his sides as he motioned for his players to step up their defense. His team wasn’t just a collection of athletes; they were a precision instrument, each player knowing their exact role in his carefully designed system.

But when the game had started, it was clear that his rival wasn’t going to play by the rules. No, his team was fast. Fluid. They seemed to anticipate every pass, every play, in ways that seemed almost instinctual. The opposing coach was loose with his instructions, often just clapping or offering a brief word, and yet somehow, it worked. That was the part that gnawed at Eun-woo most of all. How could someone so seemingly careless be so successful?

A whistle broke through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present moment. His team was trailing by three now. The tension in the stadium was thick—every fan on their feet, every eye locked on the court as the seconds ticked away.

The final quarter was about to begin, and Eun-woo would stop at nothing to ensure victory. His gaze never left his rival across the court, that infuriatingly confident expression fueling his determination. This wasn’t just about basketball anymore. This was personal.