The Bastard Strikes Again.

Winning Game 2 didn't mean Cleveland had regained home-court advantage, but heading to Boston with the series tied at 1-1? That was a reset. Both teams were back on equal footing.

On the flight to Boston, Han was chatting with Jokić when Dante Cunningham approached.

In his hands was a book. His expression? Pissed.

A book wasn't unusual—Cleveland to Boston was about a 90-minute flight.

But Cunningham's face? That was different.

"Boss, someone's slandering you."

Cunningham handed Han the book.

Han raised a brow. Somebody hating on me? Now that's interesting.

The title read: "Unmasking Han Sen."

Fame came with a price—Han knew that well.

Once you reached a certain level, people weren't just watching; they were looking for ways to profit off your name.

And writing books? That was one of the easiest ways to cash in.

In the U.S., with the way publishing rights worked, a best-selling book could be worth millions.

If you hit the jackpot? You could make more in one summer than most NBA role players earned in a season.

Han had seen it happen before.

A few years back, his former teammate Antawn Jamison wrote a book called "The Great Leader: Han Sen"—chronicling Han's sacrifices in Memphis and how he uplifted his teammates.

The book was a massive hit. Jamison pulled in nearly $2 million in royalties that summer—more than what he had earned with the Grizzlies.

And then, of course, there was Scottie Pippen.

Han still remembered how Pippen threw shade at Jordan just to boost his book sales.

Han glanced at the author's name.

Stu Rush.

It looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

Then, he flipped through a few pages—and it clicked.

Rush was the former GM of the Grizzlies.

The guy who executed Heisley's orders to trade him to Cleveland before the team was sold.

The same guy who got fired the moment new ownership took over.

"Where'd you get this?" Han asked.

Jokić scooted over, giving Cunningham space to sit next to Han.

"This book is blowing up on social media. ESPN's pushing it like crazy."

Hearing that, Han's interest piqued.

He flipped through the pages.

The book focused heavily on the 2013-14 season—his last year in Memphis.

And in it? Han wasn't the leader Jamison had described.

He was painted as a manipulative tyrant.

Rush wrote about how Han forced his teammates to show up to practice an hour early—and if they didn't, they could either deal with him or request a trade.

How he bullied teammates in one-on-one drills, constantly challenging them—even when they didn't want to.

"Han presents himself as a humble leader. But when faced with adversity, the mask comes off—and he becomes a ruthless bastard."

That was Rush's conclusion.

Halfway through reading, Han paused.

Then, he pulled out his phone and looked up Rush.

The guy had been unemployed since leaving Memphis.

Which made sense.

He had been nothing but a disposable scapegoat—a glorified fall guy for the ownership transition.

No team wanted him.

Han shut the book and tossed it back to Cunningham.

"He's not even lying."

Cunningham froze.

Han had never denied a hit piece before.

Most players would be furious if someone published something like this.

But Han?

He just admitted it—like it was a fact.

Because looking back, he really was an asshole that season.

He had done everything necessary to push Memphis to a three-peat.

The only reason nobody called him out before was because Memphis kept winning.

And now? Rush was just another ex-NBA exec trying to cash in.

Cunningham leaned in and lowered his voice.

"Boss, I'm worried this might mess with the locker room."

The timing of the book's release couldn't have been worse.

Han had just gone full psycho to get Cleveland back in Game 2.

Not everyone in that locker room had played with him long enough to really know him.

And in the NBA, public image mattered.

Every superstar had a manufactured persona.

And this?

This was a PR nightmare.

Han smirked.

"You can't control how people think, Dante."

"If a book can change how someone sees me, then they weren't really with me to begin with."

He wasn't respected because he was a nice guy.

Dwyane Wade was nicer than him.

But respect?

That came from winning.

It came from leading a team to a championship—from making your teammates richer than they ever imagined.

If Han couldn't win—if he couldn't put money in their pockets—then no amount of niceness would make them follow him.

Han didn't care.

But his team?

They weren't going to ignore this.

As Han flew to Boston, Chris Rondo—his financial manager—had already filed a lawsuit against Rush for defamation.

Not that it would do much.

Because Rush wasn't making things up—he was just twisting the truth.

And ESPN?

They were milking it for all it was worth.

Han's hater count exploded overnight.

And social media?

It was a warzone.

Fans started linking him to Isaiah Thomas.

Thomas was the grieving underdog, playing for his late sister.

Meanwhile, Han had been merciless in Game 1.

The narrative wrote itself—Han Sen was a villain. A cold-hearted bastard.

And the fallout didn't stop there.

When the Cavs landed in Boston, Han saw a crowd of protesters outside his hotel.

Some wore shirts saying "F*** Han Sen".

Some held signs that read "Boston doesn't welcome bastards".

Han just laughed.

Nike had to be behind this.

ESPN pushing the book? Fine.

But paying protesters to smear his name?

Classic corporate warfare.

Han wasn't mad.

If anything—he was nostalgic.

Because seven years ago, when he first arrived in Boston for the playoffs?

It was the same scene.

The same chants.

Only back then?

The name on the signs was LeBron's.

Now, it was his.

Tomorrow night?

TD Garden was gonna be hell.

And Han couldn't wait.

---

Meanwhile, Out West…

The Western Conference Finals were already over.

Not officially.

But realistically?

Game 2 had just ended.

Golden State obliterated the Spurs, 136-100.

Kawhi Leonard was gone—his season-ending ankle injury confirmed.

And with that?

San Antonio was finished.

Mike Brown's pre-game comments about Aldridge trying to injure Curry had worked.

Popovich didn't even try retaliating.

And without Leonard?

San Antonio had no firepower left.

The Warriors were about to sweep their way into the Finals—just like the 2001 Lakers.

The only thing left to decide?

Who would meet them there—Cleveland or Boston.

---

The next night, TD Garden was packed to the rafters. The energy in the arena was electric.

As Han stepped into the building, his eyes scanned the sea of hostile signs and banners. Then, as he glanced toward the Celtics warming up—Ray Allen and Paul Pierce among them—his gaze instinctively drifted toward the scorer's table.

"Guess it's time to log back in as 'Boston's Most Hated' again."

During the pregame introductions, Han was met with a deafening chorus of boos.

Boston fans had never forgiven him for the past. Now, with the media storm surrounding him, they had all the ammunition they needed.

Han cupped his hand to his ear, taunting them.

The boos only grew louder.

The pre-fight warmups were over.

Now? It was time for battle.

Starting Lineups:

Cavaliers: Han Sen, J.R. Smith, Robert Covington, Tristan Thompson, Nikola Jokić.

Celtics: Isaiah Thomas, Avery Bradley, Kevin Durant, Al Horford, Karl-Anthony Towns.

Despite Thomas' struggles in Game 2, Brad Stevens stuck with him.

And why wouldn't he? No coach would bench an All-Star averaging 25 points in the regular season.

The game tipped off, and Boston struck first.

Horford initiated the offense from the free-throw line, setting up Durant off a Towns screen.

One dribble, rise, fire—bucket.

Then, as Cleveland set up their first possession, the matchups shifted.

Horford was guarding Jokić instead of Towns.

Horford was a natural power forward but had spent years playing center for the Hawks. He had complained about it before—coaches never listened.

Now, in Boston, nothing had changed.

But those years in Atlanta had turned him into a scrappy interior defender.

Jokić wasn't having the easy time he had against Towns.

Sensing the struggle, Han accelerated past Bradley and cut inside.

Jokić, ever the maestro, threaded a pass.

But the ball never reached Han.

A long arm came out of nowhere.

Durant.

KD wasn't an elite defender, but when he engaged, his length alone made him a problem.

He didn't fully steal the ball, but he deflected it—knocking it off course.

That gave Bradley enough time to recover, securing possession.

Boston wasted no time.

Thomas raced downcourt, torching J.R. in transition for an easy layup.

The Garden exploded.

Jokić tried to post up Horford again.

This time, he muscled him back—winning the position battle.

But just as he went to attack the rim, Towns rotated over.

Jokić read it and fired a bounce pass to TT.

But out of nowhere—Durant soared in.

A perfectly timed block sent the ball off the glass.

KD was everywhere.

The ball ricocheted to the perimeter.

Thomas was first to it.

Fast break—again.

Han sprinted back in pursuit, but Thomas was already airborne.

At the last second, Thomas spun mid-air and dished it backward.

Durant, who had been trailing the play, caught the pass in stride.

BOOM!

A two-handed slam.

KD came down screaming.

This wasn't just about a playoff game.

This was five years of frustration.

From being shipped out of OKC.

From thinking a championship was within reach in Miami—only for Han to rip it away.

Again.

And again.

This time?

KD wasn't letting it happen.

The Garden was shaking.

Pierce jumped out of his seat on the Celtics bench, pumping his fists.

This was personal.

---

0-6.

Boston came out swinging.

The "DE-FENSE!" chants began.

Horford fronted Jokić, denying the post entry.

Rather than force it, Jokić came out to set a screen.

But Boston's defense was locked in.

Bradley fought through the pick.

Horford extended his reach.

Cleveland's offense stalled.

Han signaled for Jokić to shift weak-side.

Then, he went to work.

Backdown.

Bradley held his ground.

Han adjusted, but before he could make his move, KD lurked.

His length disrupted passing lanes.

Even Thomas was pressing up, helping off his man.

Boston's defense was airtight.

Han was forced toward the baseline.

But then—he snapped.

A lightning-quick spin.

Bradley and Durant both reacted—too late.

Han was already attacking the rim.

Horford was dragged away by Jokić.

Only Towns remained.

Han didn't hesitate.

He took off.

His head reached the rim.

Towns leaped to contest—too late.

BOOM!

Han detonated a dunk over KAT.

And-One.

The whistle blew.

Han landed and stared straight at Towns.

No words. Just an ice-cold glare.

Towns flinched and looked away.

The arena went silent.

This wasn't just a dunk.

This was a message.

Boston had played perfect defense—and Han still destroyed them.

The Celtics' momentum? Gone.

The energy? Sucked out of the building.

The "F*** Han Sen" chants had stopped.

Instead, there was a nervous murmur.

Han stepped to the line and buried the free throw.

Boston's 6-0 start?

Cut in half.

And just like that?

The script flipped.

Han's teammates felt it.

They had all seen the book.

They knew what the media was saying.

"Han Sen is a tyrant."

"Han Sen is a bully."

"Han Sen breaks his teammates."

If that were true?

Then what happened when they didn't hold their own?

Would Han turn on them?

No one wanted to find out.

And just like that?

Cleveland's defense ignited.

Durant came off a screen.

Covington was there.

Hand in his face—tough shot.

Brick.

Boston's crowd grew uneasy.

It was just one possession.

Just two points.

But in a war?

One shift in momentum was all it took.

Boston's transition defense set up quickly.

Han slowed it down.

But this time—he didn't call for a play.

He called for isolation.

Backdown.

Bradley braced for impact.

But Han didn't need to overpower him.

He only needed one look.

KD lingered.

Han's eyes met his.

KD hesitated.

Han turned—instantly.

Bradley reacted—but Han's strength sent him stumbling.

Han lost his balance too—but he adapted.

As he fell, he planted his off-hand on the floor to regain control.

Like a skater using his hand for balance, he sprung forward, never breaking his dribble.

Towns was there—but he hesitated.

He had already been posterized once.

Now?

He just raised his hands—hoping for the best.

Han glided past him and hammered a two-handed dunk.

The Garden went quiet.

Shaq's voice echoed from the broadcast.

"What the hell is KAT doing? He looks like a damn punching bag out there!"

Barkley shook his head. "Han's a bastard."

He wasn't just scoring.

He was killing Towns.

Humiliating him.

And Boston?

Boston felt it.