Back-To-Back.

After a brief celebration, both teams lined up for post-game handshakes.

Dwyane Wade approached Han Sen, his emotions a complex swirl of admiration and resignation. In the end, Wade extended his hand, pulling Han into a sportsmanlike hug.

The Heat had done everything they could tonight. Against any other team in the league—or even this Grizzlies team without Han—they likely would have emerged victorious.

But Han Sen's individual brilliance had singlehandedly toppled them.

Losing to a player like that left no room for complaints.

Han returned Wade's gesture with a respectful pat on the back. Wade's determination to play through injury was commendable, but as harsh as it was, sports were unforgiving: there could only be one winner.

When Han's eyes landed on Kevin Durant, he fully expected KD to walk away, as he had before.

But to Han's surprise, Durant not only shook his hand but also delivered a fiery parting shot: "Next year, at this time, I'll beat you here."

The words carried a clear implication—Durant intended to elevate his game, likely by developing his playmaking ability.

Han smiled faintly. "I'll be waiting."

Failure breeds success because it compels those who endure it to grow stronger.

Durant might not have earned the proverbial 'bathwater' victory, but he walked away with something far more valuable—a hunger to improve.

The Grizzlies headed back to the locker room, where Han became the target of a champagne shower.

In six Finals games, Han had averaged 33 points, 4.5 rebounds, 6.5 assists, and 2.1 steals, shooting 49.2% from the field and 40% from three-point range.

Stat lines like that were legendary, ranking among the best in NBA history.

Last season's Heat might have fallen victim to the Grizzlies' style mismatch even without Han. But this Heat squad? Without Han Sen, Memphis would have been lucky to win a single game.

Defense alone couldn't topple a team like Miami.

After the locker room celebrations, the players mingled with their families.

Though Scarlett Johansson couldn't attend due to filming Under the Skin, Han's parents had made the trip this year. Han spent a few heartfelt moments with them before the championship ceremony began.

As the stage was set and the lights dimmed, the players ascended to the platform. David Stern, standing center stage, looked noticeably more relaxed than the previous year.

Given the Heat's dominant 70-win regular season, they were expected to continue their reign. Stern, however, privately rooted for Memphis.

A Grizzlies victory underscored the parity Stern cherished in the league—evident in the lack of controversial officiating against Memphis, even against a Miami team bolstered by Kevin Durant.

"Let's give credit to the Miami Heat," Stern began. "They are the second team in NBA history to achieve 70 wins in the regular season, and they've delivered an incredible performance in these Finals."

The praise carried undertones that only sharp listeners caught.

"And now," Stern continued, "let's congratulate the Memphis Grizzlies, the 2013 NBA Champions—back-to-back champions!"

As Stern handed the Larry O'Brien Trophy to owner Michael Heisley, Han Sen noticed the subtext in Stern's words. Stern's sentiments weren't just praise but also a subtle warning: the NBA wouldn't tolerate another dynasty.

But Han didn't let that concern him. Next season's battles could wait. For now, he and his teammates would revel in the moment.

When the trophy reached Han's hands, the crowd erupted as he triumphantly raised it overhead. Confetti burst into the air, and Han's face lit up with joy.

One year ago, in this very arena, he had hoisted his first championship trophy.

Now, the moment repeated itself. Memories of lifting the NCAA Division II championship here years ago flooded back. This place truly was his lucky ground.

After celebrating with the trophy and enduring a round of kisses from his teammates, the media swarmed in.

"Year four of your career, two NBA championships—an incredible achievement. What's going through your mind right now?" one reporter asked, shoving a microphone toward Han.

"It's cool," Han said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "But when's Shaq drinking that bathwater? I don't want to miss it."

The arena roared with laughter as Shaquille O'Neal, seated at the analyst desk, pretended to storm off in mock indignation.

Han shifted gears, turning serious. "Last season, nobody thought we could win a championship. This season, few believed we'd defend it. And next season, we'll probably still be doubted. But people don't understand just how special this team is."

His words weren't empty platitudes. The Grizzlies' success wasn't built on a single superstar but a collective effort.

Mike Conley. Han Sen. Rudy Gay. Zach Randolph. Marc Gasol.

It was rare to find a team with five players, all near All-Star level, working together so seamlessly.

Shortly after the interviews, the Finals MVP announcement followed.

As Stern prepared to open the envelope, Bill Russell, now frailer than the year before, was helped onto the stage. Despite his declining health, he stood tall to hand Han Sen the trophy once again.

Han leaned in, concerned for the legend.

"Kid," Russell said, his voice firm despite his weakened state, "as long as you keep winning championships, I'll be here to hand you these trophies."

Han grinned, their fists bumping in silent agreement.

Taking the microphone, Han delivered a more formal MVP speech, thanking his parents, teammates, and everyone who supported him.

He ended with a nod to the bold proclamation he'd made last year.

"We've completed two-thirds of the job. One more to go."

The crowd erupted, fully understanding the gravity of his words.

With one more championship, the Grizzlies would join the Bulls and Lakers as the only teams in NBA history to achieve a true three-peat dynasty.

It wouldn't be easy, but the Grizzlies now had a real shot at immortality.

The ceremony wrapped up, and Han headed straight to the press room for the post-game conference, which was packed wall to wall with reporters.

As soon as Han Sen took his seat, he was immediately hit with a question about his game-winning shot tonight.

"Why is it that you always seem to hit clutch shots?"

The question made Han Sen chuckle.

Because the premise itself was flawed.

He didn't always make clutch shots—it was just the media's selective focus on the times he succeeded.

It was similar to Kobe Bryant. People thought he was always clutch because of the iconic moments highlighted over the years. But if you crunched the numbers, his success rate wasn't extraordinary. The key? Take enough of those shots, and you're bound to make a few.

Besides, this was Han's first-ever Finals buzzer-beater.

After his laugh subsided, he calmly looked at the reporter and said:

"That's my job."

The room erupted with murmurs and energy—classic Han Sen, delivering yet another line with swagger and simplicity.

Another reporter followed up. "With Wade's injury affecting the series, do you feel this championship was a bit... lucky?"

It was clear some people weren't thrilled with how the Grizzlies secured their title.

"Luck is part of the game," Han replied without hesitation, his tone blunt but honest.

Would the Grizzlies have beaten the Heat if Wade were fully healthy? Maybe. Maybe not.

But hindsight and 'what ifs' held no weight in reality. Every team dealt with injuries; it was a part of the sport. Wade's injuries were no secret going into the series, and even players like Rudy Gay, Zach Randolph, and Han himself had faced their fair share of setbacks despite their durability.

This was basketball. Nothing came guaranteed.

Another question aimed for a deeper story. "You mentioned in your Finals MVP speech that the work is only two-thirds done. But next season, your team will face serious salary cap pressures, and even your contract extension will be a topic of concern. Will you stay?"

Han smiled. "Why wouldn't I?"

Later, when he returned to the locker room, most players were celebrating with their families.

He noticed Jamison and Carter having an animated conversation about life after basketball. Curious, he interrupted.

"VC, don't tell me you're planning to hang it up too?"

"Me? No way. I'm playing until I physically can't anymore," Carter grinned, giving Han a fist bump.

Han appreciated that. The Grizzlies owed a lot of their depth to veteran leadership, and replacing these seasoned players wasn't just about finding talent—it was about chemistry and value.

After chatting, Han sat down and began replying to messages on his phone. Scarlett Johansson had sent him a congratulatory text, mentioning she'd visit him soon once her movie shoot wrapped up.

Her message reminded Han of his own movie plans. He'd asked Rondo to find some connections for him, but so far, nothing had materialized. If Hollywood didn't pan out, he figured he'd look into opportunities back home.

His thoughts were interrupted when team GM Chris Wallace entered the room. Jamison and Carter quickly excused themselves, sensing the conversation might be private.

"We've just finished discussing it. The moment free agency opens, we'll offer you a five-year supermax contract," Wallace said directly.

Officially, the NBA prohibits teams and players from negotiating before free agency begins, but everyone knew that rule was more for show. Otherwise, how would so many deals be announced on Day 1? Especially between a team and its own player—who could say if they were chatting or negotiating?

Han Sen smiled faintly.

The moment reminded him of Rudy Gay. The Grizzlies had dragged out negotiations for nearly a year before eventually giving Gay a max contract. If the result was the same, why go through all that drama in the first place?

"I've got one condition," Han said, cutting to the chase.

Wallace chuckled. "Name it. After what you've done for us, you could ask for ten things, and I'd still say yes."

However, when Han revealed his condition, Wallace's smile froze.

"Regardless of whether we complete the dynasty or not, I'll leave after next season."

Han's tone was calm and natural, as though he'd already made peace with the decision.

The truth was, he had. Ever since last summer, when the Grizzlies had hesitated to offer him even an $85 million contract, the thought of leaving had lingered in his mind.

Small-market teams with frugal owners weren't built to sustain dynasties. Even if they achieved greatness, it was only a matter of time before financial considerations tore the team apart.

If the Grizzlies did complete a dynasty, management might lose their appetite for spending big. And if they didn't? Han would be the next Nikola Jokić—a generational talent stranded in mediocrity.

In fact, management might not even wait for the future. This very summer, they'd likely face the tough choice of trading either Zach Randolph or Rudy Gay—or even both—to avoid paying the luxury tax.

But without them, how could the Grizzlies build a dynasty?

It was an unsolvable dilemma.

Han's proposal offered the best compromise. Let owner Michael Heisley know he'd only need to pay the luxury tax for one season.

Han was willing to sign the five-year supermax, partly because of NBA rules.

For restricted free agents, their current team had the right to match any offer. Most people understood this, but what they didn't know was that becoming a restricted free agent required the team to offer a one-year qualifying contract first.

Players could choose to forgo other offers and sign that one-year qualifying deal, though it was a rare move. Ben Gordon was a famous example—after finishing his rookie deal, he signed the one-year qualifying offer, then secured a five-year, $58 million contract with the Pistons the following season.

The downside? Qualifying offers typically came with lower salaries, and teams, knowing the player might leave, could manipulate their role. That's why most players avoided this route.

But if Han was dead set on leaving, even as a restricted free agent, he had options.

Still, going that route would hurt both sides. Han would lose money, and the Grizzlies would watch him walk away for nothing.

Worse, knowing he'd leave for free, the team would likely scale back its championship aspirations, making a dynasty nearly impossible.

By signing the long-term deal, Han could secure his financial future while keeping the team competitive for one final season. The Grizzlies, in turn, could trade him the following summer and receive substantial assets in return.

As for where he'd go in a trade? This time, there'd be no dramatic 'one-year pact.'

Unless Heisley wanted to burn his bridges in Memphis, the only way fans would accept Han leaving was if Han himself said it was his decision.

For now, Han's goal was clear: give everything he had for one last season, then part ways on his own terms.