"Count on it," Kiyoshi stated ftly. "Be ready for it."

  Instantly, the mood in the gym did a complete 180. That lingering high from the Motijheel game? It vanished like free pizza in the cafeteria. Repced by the cold, slightly terrifying reality of what y ahead.

  This wasn't just practice; this felt like prepping for battle. And the session that followed? Brutal. Absolutely brutal.

  Forget the semi-rexed drills from the past week. Kiyoshi and Ahsan unleashed a relentless onsught of sets designed specifically to simute and dismantle the kind of full-court pressure Kiyoshi had just described.

  Imagine trying to thread a needle while being chased by angry hornets – that was kind of the vibe. Passes weren't just encouraged to be quick; they had to be instantaneous, zipping between pyers before the simuted traps could close. Cuts to get open weren't just sharp; they needed to be explosive, decisive fakes and bursts of speed to create even a sliver of separation.

  Communication, usually a chaotic jumble of shouts like "Ball!" or "Help!", transformed. It became sharp, concise, almost coded. Pointing, quick commands, calling out screens loud and early.

  Demanding the ball with confidence, calling for help defense before the breakdown happened. "Move the ball! Don't stick to it like glue!" Kiyoshi roared as a poorly executed press break almost resulted in a steal near the sideline.

  Ahsan was right there, demonstrating the correct footwork. "See the double coming! Anticipate! Don't wait for it to swallow you whole!" The intensity skyrocketed.

  Mistakes weren't just pointed out; they were dissected on the spot, the drill reset, and run again, and again, until the execution was crisp. Fatigue started setting in early, the burn in the legs matched by the mental strain of constant focus.

  "My bad, my bad!" shouted Tariq after a missed rotation. "Good read, Rafi!" Ahsan called out after a successful pass split the trap. It was exhausting, but focused.

  And then came the defensive gauntlet. If the press break drills were tough, the defensive rotations were pure torture. We drilled closing out on imaginary shooters until our thighs screamed in protest and our lungs felt like sandpaper.

  The emphasis was relentless: sprint out, choppy steps, hand high to contest the shot, don't foul, recover. Then immediately rotate to help a teammate who got caught on a simuted screen. Then box out on the imaginary shot. Over and over.

  Kiyoshi and Ahsan were hawks, spotting every zy closeout, every slow rotation. "Lower stance, Karim!" "Hands up, Arshad!" "Find a body, Robi! Box out!"

  That fluid, almost easy rhythm we'd found in recent practices? Gone. Repced by a grinding, disciplined machine working towards perfection. Mistakes were corrected instantly, often with a pointed comment or a quick, demanding repetition of the specific movement.

  The intensity wasn't just turned up; it felt like the dial was jammed on 'maximum overdrive'. Pyers were bent over, hands on knees, gasping for air between reps, sweat dripping onto the polished floor.

  James wasn't exempt. He was right there in the trenches, sliding his feet, calling out switches, battling for position. Yeah, when we finally got to scrimmage segments, his shot was still pure silk, a constant reminder of his offensive firepower.