The days following the sweep of Maccabi were a study in controlled chaos. Madrid was gripped by a feverish anticipation. The Clásico in the EuroLeague Final Four was more than a basketball game; it was a cultural event, a battle for the soul of Spanish sport. The city was painted white and purple, with banners depicting Llull's scowl and Tavares's imposing frame hanging from balconies. The air crackled with a tension that was both exhilarating and exhausting.

For Kyle, the external noise was a distant hum. The victory in Tel Aviv had forged a new level of confidence within him, a quiet certainty that was far removed from the brashness of his youth. He was no longer just playing basketball; he was stewarding a legacy. The whispers from the NBA felt like echoes from a past life. David Weiss had called, his voice giddy with the news that his performance in the playoffs had "reset the entire market," but Kyle had politely cut him short. "After the Final Four, David. Not before."

His focus was absolute, a laser beam aimed at the heart of Barcelona's game plan. The film sessions were longer, more intense. They weren't just reviewing plays; they were dissecting souls. They analyzed the subtle dip in Nikola Mirotić's shoulders when he was tired, the way veteran guard Nick Calathes's eyes would flick to a spot on the floor a second before he made a pass.

"This is not about beating them," Laso intoned during one session, his laser pointer circling Calathes on the screen. "We know we can beat them. This is about breaking them. We must take away what they love most. For Calathes, it is control. We must be in his passing lanes, we must pressure him full court, we must make him feel your breath on his neck for forty minutes. For Mirotić, it is space. We must be physical, we must be in his jersey, we must make every catch a battle, every shot a contested nightmare."

The strategy was a symphony of controlled aggression, and Kyle was the first violinist. His assignment was clear: he would be the primary defender on Mirotić, a brutal, physically taxing role, and on offense, he was to be the relentless probe, attacking Calathes, making him work on both ends, draining the veteran's energy reserves.

The Final Four was held in the Stark Arena in Belgrade, a neutral site that felt anything but. The city was a swirling mix of red, blue, white, and purple, a cacophony of chants and songs. The atmosphere was less of a sporting event and more of a medieval jousting tournament.

The day of the semifinal dawned grey and heavy. A light rain fell on Belgrade, doing nothing to dampen the electric energy coursing through the streets. Inside the arena, the noise was a living, breathing entity. When Barcelona took the court for warm-ups, a roar went up from their half of the arena. When Madrid emerged, the response was equally deafening.

Kyle felt the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. It was a familiar weight now, a mantle he had learned to carry. He looked across at Mirotić, who was going through his shooting routine with a calm, deadly focus. This was it. The crucible.

The game started at a furious pace, but it was a different kind of fury from the Maccabi series. This was a cold, calculated fury. Barcelona was too experienced, too well-coached to rely on chaotic energy. They executed their sets with a razor-sharp precision, and Mirotić hit his first two shots over Kyle's outstretched hand—a three and a tough fadeaway.

It was a statement. Kyle just nodded to himself. The battle was joined.

He responded not with a shot of his own, but with a possession that was a microcosm of Madrid's game plan. He brought the ball up, immediately pressured by Calathes. He called for a screen, forcing a switch, and now had Mirotić on him. He drove hard, not to score, but to draw the defense, before whipping a pass to a cutting Llull for a layup.

Back and forth it went. A masterpiece of European basketball. There were no runs, no dramatic swings. It was a possession-by-possession war, a game of inches and psychological warfare. Kyle and Mirotić were locked in a brutal, personal duel. Mirotić would score over him with an impossible shot; Kyle would answer by drawing a foul on him or finding an open man for an assist.

By halftime, the score was tied at 43. Kyle was drenched in sweat, his body aching from the constant physical combat with Mirotić. He had only 6 points, but he had 5 assists and had held Mirotić to 12 points on 5-of-12 shooting—a moral victory in itself.

The third quarter was where the game was decided. Barcelona came out and made their move. They went on a 10-2 run, fueled by two quick threes from their role players. The Barcelona side of the arena erupted. Madrid was on the ropes.

During a timeout, the air in the huddle was thick with tension. Laso's diagramming was frantic. But it was Kyle who spoke, his voice low and steady, cutting through the panic.

"They are tired," he said, looking at his teammates. "Calathes is breathing heavy. Mirotić is putting his hands on his knees. This is their best shot. Now we take it from them."

He looked at Llull. "Sergio, it's time."

Llull nodded, a grim smile on his face. The Killer was being unleashed.

The next possession, Kyle came off a screen and drew two defenders. Instead of passing, he fired a bullet to Llull, who was curling off a double-screen. Llull caught, turned, and launched a three with a defender in his face.

Swish.

The run was stopped. The belief flooded back into the Madrid players.

Now it was their turn. Their defense became suffocating. Kyle, digging deep into reserves he didn't know he had, hounded Mirotić, denying him the ball, fighting over every screen. When Mirotić did get it, he was met with a double-team, forcing him into difficult passes and tough shots.

On offense, Kyle took over. He hit a step-back three over Calathes. He drove and finished a tough, contested layup through contact. He was no longer just the facilitator; he was the closer, the player Laso had trusted him to become.

With three minutes left, Madrid had clawed back to take a five-point lead. The defining moment came with 1:12 on the clock. Madrid up by three. Barcelona ball. The play was for Mirotić, isolated on Kyle at the elbow. The arena was on its feet.

Mirotić went to work, dribbling, using his size to back Kyle down. He spun, creating a sliver of space, and rose for his signature fadeaway. It was a shot he had made a thousand times.

Kyle, exhausted but mentally razor-sharp, didn't leave his feet. He stayed grounded, his right hand held high, perfectly positioned. He didn't need to block it. He just needed to contest.

The ball left Mirotić's fingertips, arced high, and clanged off the back rim.

Tavares grabbed the rebound, and Kyle immediately called for the ball. He was fouled. He walked to the free-throw line, the noise a deafening roar of hope and hatred.

He sank both. Ice in his veins.

The final seconds ticked away. Barcelona, desperate, missed a final heave.

Final Score: Real Madrid 80 - FC Barcelona 75

Pandemonium. The Madrid players rushed the court, a wave of white and purple, hugging, screaming, crying. They had done it. They were in the EuroLeague Final.

Kyle stood for a moment, hands on his knees, utterly spent. He had given everything. He looked up at the scoreboard: Wilson: 19 points, 9 assists, 7 rebounds. He had out-dueled Mirotić when it mattered most.

Laso found him in the chaos, wrapping him in a bear hug. "You were a lion," he whispered in his ear, his voice thick with emotion. "A goddamn lion."

As they celebrated in the locker room, the music blaring, Kyle felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Sergio Llull, holding two water bottles. He handed one to Kyle.

"To the Professor," Llull said, his voice hoarse. "And to the Killer. We are going to the final, my friend."

Kyle clinked his bottle against Llull's. The weight was still there, the crown of expectation was now heavier than ever. But as he looked around the room at the joyous, exhausted faces of his brothers, he knew he wouldn't choose to carry it with anyone else. One more game. One more mountain to climb.

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