The moment the black van pulled up in front of the modest Sarmiento residence, the neighborhood practically came to a standstill. It wasn't every day a fleet of literal giants, looking like they stepped out of a luxury magazine, descended upon their dusty street.
The door hissed open, and the heat hit them in a solid wave.
"The sea! I can smell it! It's right there, isn't it?" Jairo shouted, his eyes darting toward the end of the road where the horizon met the blue. He didn't even wait to see the house. With a grin, he shoved his heavy duffel bag into Lynx's unsuspecting chest. "Hold this, Lynx! Ian, you're my navigator! Let's go!"
Jairo hooked an arm around Ian's neck, practically dragging the confused graduate toward the sound of the waves. Ian stumbled, his eyes wide, looking like a deer caught in a high-fashion headlights.
He didn't get far.
A pale, steady hand reached out and snagged the back of Jairo's collar. With a deceptive lack of effort, Mico hauled Jairo back, the fabric tightening around Jairo's throat until he let out a choked "Ack!"
"Luggage first, Jairo," Mico said, his voice as cool and level as if they were back in a climate-controlled meeting room in China. He didn't even look at the choking member. Instead, his sharp gaze turned to Lynx. "Lynx, where should we stow our gear? We shouldn't keep your family waiting."
Lynx, clutching Jairo's bag like a clumsy porter, just shook his head. "Straight through the door, Cap. My house is your house."
Inside, the scent of the sea was replaced by something much more powerful: the aroma of a mother's welcome. Lynx's mother had outdone herself. She hadn't prepared a "tourist" meal, she had prepared a sea-to-table feast of authentic, local delicacies.
There were platters of Adobong Pusit (squid in soy sauce), grilled Liyempo, and the centerpieces: Kinilaw (raw fish ceviche in vinegar) and Larang (sour fish stew).
Lynx's mother, his sisters, and Ian sat at the edges of the room, watching the visitors with bated breath. They expected the "rich city boys" to poke at the food with suspicion.
They expected them to recoil at the sight of the dark squid ink or the raw fish.
Instead, they witnessed a tactical strike.
Uno was the first to dive in, his designer glasses pushed up onto his head. "This ceviche... the acidity is perfect!" He chirped, taking a massive spoonful. "It's like a flavor explosion. Felix, try this."
Felix didn't need telling twice. The quiet giant was methodically working his way through the grilled fish, his eyes closed in focused appreciation. "The char," Felix murmured. "It tastes like the sun and the woodsmoke."
Jairo, finally released from Mico's grip, was eating like he hadn't seen food in a week, his face already stained slightly with squid ink. "This is amazing! Ma'am, you're a genius! Why didn't Lynx tell us he was hiding a five-star chef in the Philippines?"
Even Mico, who usually ate with the precision of a surgeon, was leaning into the meal. He handled the exotic textures with complete nonchalance, nodding to Lynx's mother with genuine respect. There wasn't a hint of disgust on any of their faces, they were eating with the kind of raw, hungry joy that only athletes—and true brothers—can share.
Lynx's mother beamed, her previous worries melting away. "They're good boys," she whispered to Lynx. "Tall, but very good boys."
---
The sun was beginning to hang low, casting long, golden shadows across the yard, but Jairo wasn't looking at the sunset. He was vibrating.
"Cap, look at the horizon. It's calling me. Mico, I can literally hear the waves crying because I'm not in them yet," Jairo pestered, hovering around Mico like a hyperactive mosquito. "One swim. Just one. I'll even do the team's laundry for a week. Okay, three days. Mico! Cap! Command me to go to the water!"
Mico, who was trying to finish his coffee in peace, let out a slow, resigned exhale. He looked at Jairo's frantic energy, then at the rest of the team who were clearly just as restless.
"Fine," Mico said, setting the cup down. "Go. Before you vibrate through the floor."
Jairo let out a victory screech that probably startled every rooster in the barangay.
Lynx and Ian took the lead as the official guides. To get to the "good" part of the shore, they had to trek through a wide grassland dotted with towering coconut trees. It was a classic tropical landscape—the air smelling of sweet grass and salt, the ground uneven but familiar to Lynx's feet.
Mico walked at a steady pace, his hands in his pockets, watching the surroundings with his usual observant gaze. This time, he didn't bother reigning Jairo in.
Jairo sprinted ahead. The moment his feet touched the sand and the vast expanse of the ocean opened up before them, he lost all composure.
"WAAAAHOOOOO!"
Jairo screamed in pure glee, kicking off his Beachwalk slippers—the classic, sturdy rubber flip-flops Lynx had insisted they buy. The slippers flew through the air, landing haphazardly in the sand. He didn't care about his clothes. He didn't care that he was wearing a premium cotton shirt. He dove headfirst into the surf, the water splashing up in a massive white spray.
Uno followed right behind, though he at least had the presence of mind to hand his expensive camera to Ian first. "Don't drop that, kid! That's worth more than the van!" Then he, too, disappeared into the waves with a loud splash.
Felix stood at the shoreline, the water lapping at his ankles, his large frame silhouetted against the orange sky. He looked like a statue of a guardian.
"The water is warm," Felix noted, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his stoic expression.
Mico stood beside Lynx, watching the chaos of their teammates wrestling in the water. He didn't jump in immediately, but he did kick off his own slippers, feeling the fine Philippine sand between his toes for the first time.
"You have a good home, Lynx," Mico said quietly, the 'Imperial Commander' finally letting his guard down under the shade of a coconut tree.
Lynx grinned, looking at his brother Ian, who was laughing while trying to keep Uno's camera dry and taking pictures, and then at his team, who looked like they had finally found a place where the pressure of the international stage couldn't reach them.
"Yeah," Lynx said, breathing in the salt air. "It's not bad for a bunch of basketball players, right?"
---
The calm of the open water was usually the one place where Lynx's father felt completely in control. He and his kumpadres were out a few hundred yards from the shore, their wooden outrigger boats bobbing gently as they cast their nets into the shimmering blue.
The peaceful silence was shattered by the high-pitched whine of a powerful engine.
A jet ski—sleek, modern, and far too fast—came tearing through the water, carving a sharp white wake that sent ripples rocking the fishing boats. Lynx's father squinted against the sun, his weathered face hardening in confusion.
"Hoy! Dahan-dahan!" (Hey! Slow down!) One of the fishermen shouted, but the driver didn't seem to hear.
The jet ski circled them like a shark with a motor, spray flying everywhere. As it pulled a sharp turn, Lynx's father realized there were two people on it. His eyes widened when he recognized the passenger.
"Ian?!"
Ian was gripping the back of the driver's life vest so tightly his knuckles were white. He was screaming something at the man in front of him—half-pleading, half-cursing—but the driver just threw his head back and laughed. The man drove the jet ski like he was racing a big bike on an open highway, leaning into the turns with a reckless, terrifying confidence.
Before Lynx's father could process the chaos, another jet ski approached, though this one moved with much more calm. It slowed to a crawl, the engine purring steadily as it pulled up alongside his boat.
The driver was a young man with a build like a soldier and a gaze that felt like it could cut through stone. Even in the middle of the ocean, wearing nothing but board shorts and high-end sunglasses, he exuded a chillingly cool authority.
"Good afternoon, sir," the young man said, his voice deep and steady despite the engine's hum. "I am Mico. I'm the captain of Lynx's team."
Lynx's father stared, momentarily starstruck. This was the 'Imperial Commander' Lynx had spoken of, the one who supposedly controlled the millions. He looked less like a basketball player and more like a prince who had lost his way to a yacht.
"A-ah... Mico," Lynx's father stammered, clutching his fishing net. He looked back at the first jet ski, which was currently doing a 360-degree spin that sent Ian's legs flying into the air. "S-si Ian... sino yung kasama niya? Parang mamamatay na sa takot ang anak ko!" (Ian... who is he with? My son looks like he's dying of fear!)
Mico followed his gaze. He let out a short, almost imperceptible sigh, his jaw tightening slightly.
"Please forgive my teammate's lack of decorum, sir," Mico said, turning back to the father with a polite but firm nod. "That is Uno. He tends to get... overstimulated by new environments. I will ensure he doesn't capsize your son."
Mico then looked toward the rogue jet ski and let out a sharp, piercing whistle that seemed to carry across the entire ocean. "Uno! Enough! You're scaring the fish and the family!"
The first jet ski slowed down instantly, Uno turning around with a wide, sheepish grin that sparkled even from a distance. Ian, meanwhile, looked like he was ready to kiss the solid ground of his father's boat.
---
While the other four members of Castillian were turning the shoreline into a high-fashion photo shoot, Uno posing with a surfboard he didn't know how to use and Jairo trying to convince Felix to do a "muscle shot" for the fans, Lynx stayed with his father. He had stripped down to his shirt, his lean, athletic frame a stark contrast to the weathered, sturdy build of the older fishermen.
"Pa, let me help," Lynx insisted, grabbing the heavy, brine-soaked netting. "I haven't forgotten how to pull a line."
A low hum signaled Mico's approach. He maneuvered his jet ski with surgical precision, gliding alongside the outrigger boat. With a nimble hop, the Captain boarded the small vessel, his weight causing it to dip slightly. He stood there, tall and composed, looking like a high-tech visitor in an ancient world.
Mico's sharp, hazel eyes drifted downward. He stared at the plastic buckets at the bottom of the boat. Inside, only a few handfuls of small, silver fish flickered weakly.
"Is this the entire catch?" Mico asked, his voice devoid of judgment but filled with a strategist's curiosity. "The sea is vast, but the bucket is nearly empty. Why?"
One of the fisherman, a man with skin like cracked leather and eyes weary from years of salt-spray, spat into the water. His face twisted with a sudden, sharp bitterness.
"Ask your country over the horizon, young man," the fisherman growled, gesturing toward the open sea. "Those Chinese vessels... the big steel ones. They don't just fish, they vacuum the ocean. They stay in our waters, taking the tuna, the mackerel, everything. They leave us the scraps."
Mico's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze sharpened.
"They have the big ships, the coast guard, the weapons," Lynx's father added, his voice heavy with a quiet, helpless anger. "We are just a small island. Even our own government looks the other way because they are afraid of the giant. What can a wooden boat do against a wall of steel?"
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the rhythmic lapping of the waves against the hull. Mico looked out toward the horizon, the same direction where thousands of miles away, the "Casa de Imperium" and their basketball dreams were headquartered.
Mico reached down and picked up a small fish, watching it struggle in his palm before dropping it back into the bucket. For a man who lived his life calculating victories and controlling the court, the sight of an unfair game—a game where the rules were broken by the biggest player—didn't sit well with him.
"In basketball, the biggest player on the court isn't always the winner," Mico said softly, his voice cutting through the tension. "They're just the easiest target to move around if you know where to strike."
He looked at Lynx's father. "You aren't just a small island, sir. You're the home of the people who make this team possible. And Castillian doesn't like losing."