The atmosphere against Ryonan was different from the fiery intensity of Shohoku. It was calmer, almost relaxed, and that was the most dangerous part. Akira Sendoh moved with a languid, effortless grace that was disarming. He didn't seem to be trying very hard.
And that was the problem.
He wasn't explosively fast like Aomine, nor was he a sharpshooter like Midorima. He was just... everywhere. He'd grab a defensive rebound, bring the ball up himself, and with a few casual dribbles, he'd dismantle their defense. A pass here, a drive there, a soft floater over Teo's reach.
He was a rhythm disruptor. Just as Flowstate would start to find their flow, Sendoh would hit a seemingly casual three or make a pass that no one saw coming, breaking their momentum entirely.
Riki was working harder than he had against Akashi, not because of oppressive pressure, but because of sheer unpredictability. Sendoh didn't have a system; he had feel.
Halftime: Ryonan 45, Flowstate 40.
It wasn't a blowout, but it felt insurmountable. They were playing well, but Sendoh was playing a different game, lulling them into a false sense of control before gently pulling the rug out from under them.
In the huddle, Drei was frustrated. "He's not following patterns. I can't predict him."
"He's toying with us," Renz snapped, wiping sweat from his brow.
Teo, who had been matched against Ryonan's strong center, Uozumi, shook his head. "No. He's not toying. He's just... playing. It's all natural to him."
Riki looked at his team, seeing the frustration. They were trying to solve a puzzle that had no defined edges. "Then we stop trying to solve him," he declared. "We stop watching him and just play our game. Faster. Harder. Make him react to us."
The second half was about to start. The question was no longer if they could beat Sendoh's skill, but if they could overwhelm his calm.