By Thursday morning, the Castillian team was starting to understand one thing — if Mico Cein Esguerra ever said "trial," it meant suffering.
The sun wasn't even high yet when the court echoed with grunts, clangs, and Jairo's never-ending voice of encouragement.
7:00 AM
"Push through it! Don't let the barbell tell you who you are!"
Jairo's voice rang across the gym like a motivational speaker on caffeine. His energy was contagious — though it occasionally caused more chaos than focus.
Felix, calm as always, lifted the weights in clean, unbroken rhythm. Every rep was precise, no sound of struggle, just quiet strength.
Lynx, on the other hand, was flexing in the mirror instead of lifting.
"Form's important," he said, striking a pose.
Uno, passing by with a towel, snorted. "You mean performance."
"Same thing," Lynx said with a grin.
Meanwhile, Mico was jotting notes beside the racks, ignoring the commotion entirely. His pen scratched across the paper: Strength adequate. Discipline—questionable.
Then he looked up. "Where's Uno?"
The team glanced around.
Right on cue, the missing Shooting Guard reappeared from the hallway, sipping from a bright pink smoothie. "Hydration break," he said casually.
Mico blinked once. "You were gone for twenty-three minutes."
Uno shrugged. "The line was long. Also, it's mango."
Mico closed his notebook slowly. "Next time, bring one for everyone."
Uno smiled, impressed. "Captain, are you… being nice?"
"Penalty laps," Mico replied without emotion.
Uno sighed. "There it is."
9:00 AM
The court turned silent as Mico laid down a whiteboard filled with diagrams and arrows that looked like a battle map.
"Today's focus: defense," he said. "You can't win if you can't stop your opponent."
Lynx raised a hand lazily. "Defense ruins the vibe, Captain. It's like... anti-freedom movement."
Mico's head turned. "Freedom doesn't win championships."
Uno crossed his arms. "Maybe not, but it improves aesthetic spacing."
Jairo groaned. "Not the spacing argument again."
Mico ignored the complaints and motioned to Felix. "Demonstrate."
Felix stepped forward, quiet and composed. He stood still for a moment, then timed his move with surgical precision — blocking Jairo's shot mid-air with a sound that echoed like thunder.
Everyone froze.
"Okay, I take it back," Jairo said, staring at his failed shot. "Defense is terrifying."
Felix simply nodded. "It's about patience, not pride."
Lynx tilted his head. "So… we're supposed to just stand there and wait?"
"Not stand," Felix corrected. "Anchor."
Uno whispered to Jairo, "He talks like a monk trapped in a tank's body."
"Maybe that's why he's so good," Jairo whispered back.
Mico drew another set of arrows on the board. "Defense isn't waiting. It's control. It's predicting everything before it happens."
Lynx frowned. "Captain, you sound like a supervillain again."
"I'm an engineer," Mico replied. "Same concept."
5:00 PM
By the time evening came, everyone was sore, sweaty, and ready to collapse. But Mico wasn't done.
"Final drill," he announced. "Every basket counts only if it's preceded by a steal."
Jairo blinked. "So… we can't score unless we take it first?"
Mico nodded. "Precisely."
Uno groaned. "That's—wait, no, actually that's poetic."
Lynx grinned. "You mean stupid."
Mico blew his whistle. "Start."
The next two hours were chaos.
Balls flying, sneakers sliding, shouts echoing — but barely anyone scoring. Every time someone got the ball, another immediately stole it.
Felix blocked with precision, Lynx darted like lightning, Jairo dove for every loose ball, and Uno… complained artistically while still making plays look good.
By the end, they'd produced thirty-eight steals — and only four points.
Everyone collapsed to the floor, gasping.
Jairo was the first to speak. "We won… right?"
Mico looked down at his clipboard. "Technically."
Uno laughed breathlessly. "Productive… technically."
Felix nodded solemnly. "Efficiency is a spectrum."
Lynx rolled onto his back, groaning. "If this is defense, I'd rather go to war."
Mico allowed himself a small smirk. "That's exactly what you just did."
---
DAY 5
By Friday, the Castillian weren't just teammates — they were walking contradictions held together by sweat, caffeine, and Mico's terrifying sense of order.
The first four days had tested their bodies and their patience.
But the fifth day?
It was going to test their minds.
7:00 AM
The team gathered inside their now-clean training room, facing a flickering projector screen that showed footage of their previous scrimmages. Mico stood beside it, laser pointer in hand, posture straight, expression unreadable.
"Observe the gaps," he said, clicking through frames. "Our transition defense collapses after every offensive rebound."
Jairo leaned forward, eyes wide. "Who is that missing the rebound? That's—oh. It's me."
Felix's deadpan voice followed. "Observation: volume equals guilt."
Lynx, leaning back with his feet on the table, pointed lazily at the screen. "Yo, that guy has nice sneakers. Look at that glow."
Uno squinted. "Can we fix the lighting though? The shadow on my shot is killing the vibe."
Mico slowly lowered the laser pointer and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is not a film critique."
Lynx grinned. "Then why does it look like one?"
"Because you make it one," Mico replied flatly.
The room erupted in muffled laughter. Even Felix cracked a quiet chuckle.
9:00 AM
By mid-morning, they were on the court again. Mico stood near the whiteboard, outlining new plays — lines intersecting like mathematical poetry.
"The system," Mico explained, "depends on synchronization. No improvisation."
Lynx raised a brow. "But improvisation's the soul of the game."
"And the reason you nearly broke Jairo's nose yesterday," Mico countered.
Lynx laughed, unbothered. "Details, Captain. Details."
Felix, already standing in formation, demonstrated every move perfectly — calculated, calm, efficient.
Uno, meanwhile, held his shooting stance longer than necessary, admiring himself through the glass wall reflection.
"Form's art," he murmured. "Perfection deserves appreciation."
Jairo groaned. "You sound like a museum guide."
Midway through Mico's lecture, he paused and looked around. "…Where's my marker?"
Everyone shrugged — until Lynx scratched his head and a black marker fell from his hair.
"Found it!" He said cheerfully.
Mico stared at him for five silent seconds. "…You are chaos incarnate."
Lynx winked. "And you love it."
Uno snorted. "He's not denying it."
4:00 PM
The afternoon sky bled into orange when Mico finally called for a full scrimmage.
"Two teams," he said. "Team Passion — Jairo, Lynx, Felix. Team System — Uno and me."
Jairo's grin was instant. "Oh, it's on."
Lynx cracked his knuckles. "Prepare to lose, Captain."
Mico's reply was simple: "We'll see who adapts faster."
The whistle blew — and chaos came alive.
Lynx exploded across the court like lightning, unpredictable and untamed. Jairo's energy kept Team Passion moving like a wildfire, shouting directions even when no one needed them. Felix anchored them both, quiet yet immovable, turning every defense into rhythm.
On the other side, Mico and Uno moved like one. Every pass, every fake, every signal was clean — mechanical precision meeting artistic flair. Uno's shots were poetry in motion, and Mico orchestrated the court like a strategist conducting war.
It wasn't a match.
It was a collision of worlds — logic versus instinct, control versus freedom.
By the end, the rim bent slightly from Lynx's dunk, Jairo had dive-bombed into a bench, and Uno's shirt was half untucked. Mico's hair, for the first time, was slightly disheveled.
The scoreboard? 103 points. The result? Unclear.
But something unspoken settled between them — a realization that together, chaos and order didn't cancel each other. They completed each other.
Mico looked at the exhausted team, his breath steady. "Fire cannot be reasoned with," he said softly. "But it can score 103 points."
Lynx raised a hand, smirking. "Was that… a compliment?"
Mico didn't answer — just grabbed his water bottle and walked toward the locker room.
Uno called out after him, "I think that's his version of a love letter!"
Jairo laughed, falling to the floor. Felix only shook his head, smiling faintly.