This situation? This was code-red alert, all hands on deck, abandon ship IMMEDIATELY level of disaster. Saying ‘tweak’ was like saying the Titanic just needs a ‘minor scratch repair’ after hitting an iceberg the size of Rhode Isnd. Talk about understatement of the century, Coach. We’re drowning here, and you’re offering us a teaspoon.

  He keeps talking, eyes scanning over Salman, Lut, Saim, Anderson, and Nikhil. Their faces? Oh man, their faces were a masterpiece. A beautiful, chaotic blend of pure, uncut panic sprinkled with this tiny, fragile, almost childlike hope that Coach was about to drop some top-secret, reality-bending strategy on them.

  They were hanging onto his every single sylble like it was a life raft in a massive, raging ocean of James-induced despair. Seriously, they looked like they were praying for a miracle, like maybe Beyoncé would suddenly appear courtside and offer some divine basketball intervention, or at least a timeout py that wasn't completely cooked. You could practically hear the collective "please, Coach, PLEASE have a pn" vibes radiating off them in waves.

  “We… we simply cannot, under any circumstances, allow him… that… James… individual… to continue being the entire freakin’ storyline of this… uh… situation,” Coach Rahman stammers, clearly struggling to find words that even remotely captured the James-shaped bck hole currently devouring their game. It was like trying to describe the color 'purple' to someone who's only ever seen bck and white.

  “We need to… regain control. Assert dominance. Subjugate… No, no, scratch that whole ‘subjugate’ thing, way too aggressive. We need to… neutralize him.” Neutralize?! Dude, is James a rogue AI gone sentient? Is he a bio-weapon we need to contain?

  He leans in real close, voice dropping to this super-hushed, conspiratorial whisper, like he's about to reveal the secret ingredient in the Krabby Patty, not a basketball game pn. “Here’s the pn,” he breathes, “and it’s… a bit out there. We go… triple-team.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect, letting the word hang in the air like a brick about to fall, a poorly aimed free throw in the st seconds of the game. “Triple-team. James. Every. Single. Blessed. Time. he even thinks about looking at the ball. If he’s breathing in the general vicinity of the ball, BAM! Three of you, on him. Think of it as… a James-fvored mosh pit, but with, you know, defense… kinda.”

  And just like that, a wave of pure, unadulterated shock ripples through the Motijheel pyers, like a secondhand embarrassment tsunami. Triple-team? Wait, hold up. Was that… even a real thing in professional basketball?

  Was it, like, morally acceptable? Did such a strategy even exist outside of those super messed-up basketball nightmares you have after eating too much pizza before bed? It sounded like something you’d try on the pyground against that one kid who was, like, suspiciously good for his age, not in a legit, televised match with actual stakes.

  They exchanged these wide-eyed, silent gnces, telepathically screaming at each other, "Did he just actually say what I think he just said? Triple-team? Seriously?"

  Salman, bless his brave, slightly bewildered soul, decides to be the hero and voice the collective internal scream. “Triple-team?” he echoes, his voice cracking just a tiny bit, betraying the sheer terror bubbling underneath his attempt at a calm facade.