#dronecaptain

They called him “#1” for a reason.

Not just because it was printed across his gleaming chest and shorts, not just because the whole squad chanted it when they dropped into formation, but because he embodied it. EZAN didn’t need to flex. He was the flex. He stood on the polished court, golden jersey tight against his chest, one hand raised high in the air. That finger pointed straight up, and everyone in the gym understood: we rise or we break.

It wasn’t showboating. It was declaration.

Practice wasn’t casual under his command. Every drill was war prep. Every shot, a message. Every shout, a vow.

When game time hit, he shifted into something harder. A glint behind the eyes. The sweat sheen darkening around his carved shoulders, spreading over the reflective jersey like molten metal, transforming him into something sharper than human.

And then came the dunk.

The crowd didn’t breathe. Mid-air, he was a golden weapon, legs tucked, size 13s exploding off the court, ball cradled like a live charge. His roar as he slammed it through the hoop echoed like thunder through the rafters. Opponents wilted. Golden Bros lit up.

But the real power? It came from his control.

At half-court, eyes burning through defenders, EZAN pointed. His team moved. No second-guessing. No mistakes. Just obedience, swift, drilled, loyal.

Because he wasn’t just the brawn. He was the blueprint.

And when the final whistle blew? He stood again at center court, ball under one arm, slow grin breaking across his face. Jersey clung to his body, socks stained with effort, and still, he raised that finger again.

The whole squad followed.

One team. One mission. One GOLD leading them forward.