The loss to Vorpal Swords didn't break Flowstate. It recalibrated them.
There were no existential crises, no long nights staring at the impossible architecture of The City. There was only the grind. The film room became a second home. The pristine, always-available courts of their training district became a monastery.
The focus was singular: Evolution.
Renz lived in the shooting gym, launching threes from further and further out, chasing the ghost of Midorima's range. "If he can do it, it's possible," became his mantra.
But the most radical transformation was Teo's. For hours each day, long after everyone else had left, he stood beyond the three-point line. Riki fed him pass after pass. At first, his form was awkward, the shot of a big man uncomfortable so far from the basket. The ball clanged off the rim, the backboard, sometimes missed everything.
He didn't react. He just caught the next pass, adjusted his grip minutely, and shot again.
Clang. Clang. Swish. Clang. Swish.
It wasn't about making every shot. It was about building the muscle memory, the neural pathway, until the absurd became routine. Until a 7'1 center spotting up from deep was no longer a trick play, but a weapon.
They weren't questioning the rules of The City anymore. They were learning to break the game within them.