The gasp rolled through the building the moment the cameras panned to Caitlin Clark in street clothes. No No. 22, no logo-range heat checks, no safety blanket. For a split second, Indiana looked exposed. Then Lexie Hull caught the ball on the wing, squared her shoulders, and turned the night into a blowtorch. By the time the horn sounded, the Chicago Sky—and a stunned Angel Reese—were walking off under a storm of booing that wasn’t for the home team. It was for the beatdown.

Hull played like a player who’d been waiting her turn with receipts. The footwork was crisp, the release was ruthless, and the confidence was radioactive. Early in the second quarter she rattled in back-to-back threes from opposite corners, then curled off a pin-down for a mid-range jumper that thudded like a gavel. Heat-check time arrived fast: transition pull-up, nothing but nylon; weak-side relocate, splash; a baseline cut for an and-one that had the bench howling. Chicago tried chasing over, switching late, even flashing a stunt from the nail. Hull read every look like she’d seen the script the night before.

Without Clark, Indiana didn’t panic—they pivoted. Erica Wheeler steadied the tempo, Kelsey Mitchell toggled between flamethrower and floor general, and Aliyah Boston and NaLyssa Smith turned the paint into a private office. The Fever spammed simple, cruel actions: empty-corner pick-and-rolls to isolate Chicago’s help; Spain stacks that forced the Sky to choose between giving up the roller or the pop; early drag screens that let Hull and Mitchell attack before the defense could get its feet set. The Sky’s closeouts grew longer and more desperate, and that’s when Indiana twisted the knife with extra passes that turned good shots into great ones.

On the other end, the Fever defense looked like a group project that everyone actually did. They iced side pick-and-rolls to trap drives along the sideline, walled up on Reese at the block with a second body appearing the instant she dipped her shoulder, then swarmed the glass with two hands and elbows out. Angel got hers in flashes—she always does—but Indiana refused to let her live at the rim. Every catch came a step farther than she wanted; every spin met a chest, not a shadow. When Chicago tried to spark a run with pressure, the Fever answered with a 9–0 sprint capped by a Hull transition three that felt personal.

What made it all sting for Chicago was how calm Indiana stayed. No star, no problem—just structure, pace, and shooters who didn’t blink. Hull’s body language told the story: chin up, eyes hunting space, palms open for the rock like she could feel Defender No. 4 arriving before the pass did. When the Sky finally sent a hard trap at her in the third, she slipped it with a bounce to Boston, who pinged it to Mitchell for a dagger. That sequence—clean, ruthless, unhurried—summed up the night better than any box score.

The subplots were delicious. Angel vs. Aliyah in the paint was a chess match: angles, footwork, feints, and a lot of quiet, professional violence. Chennedy Carter’s burst challenged Indiana’s point-of-attack defense; the Fever responded by switching length onto her and meeting her at the dotted line with bodies. Chicago’s hope spot—a mini-run sparked by offensive boards—died when Lexie jumped a passing lane, took it coast-to-coast, and kissed it high off glass through contact. Ballgame energy. Crowd-on-its-feet energy.

And about Clark’s absence? It mattered—and it didn’t. The gravity she usually supplies was reproduced by committee: Wheeler’s paint touches, Mitchell’s shot threat, Hull’s movement without the ball, Boston’s screen setting that felt like a moving clinic without, you know, actually moving. Indiana didn’t try to cosplay as the Clark Show; they authored a different episode entirely. That’s the scary part for the rest of the league. If the Fever can win this loud without their brightest supernova, what happens when she’s back and the role players have leveled up?

By the fourth quarter, Chicago’s rotations were a step late and a sigh long. The Sky bench tried to will a comeback, but Indiana had already cut the oxygen. Every hopeful Chicago bucket was answered by poise: a patient post-touch, a two-pass swing to the corner, a late-clock dagger that popped the net so clean it sounded like applause. The camera found Lexie after one more triple; she didn’t scream. She just nodded—yep—and backpedaled into the next assignment.

This wasn’t a fluke. It was a blueprint. Defend with five, run with pace, live on two-for-one margins, and let shooters be sharks. Hull didn’t just get hot; she made Chicago pay for every single coverage decision like an auditor with a calculator and time. Reese will circle the rematch—count on it. But so will Indiana, because nights like this are how a young team stops being a curiosity and turns into a problem.

If you came for a crisis because Clark sat, you got a coronation instead: Lexie Hull, game-breaker. The Fever didn’t survive without their star—they thrived. And somewhere in the film room tomorrow, a scout is going to pause, rewind, and scribble the note every opponent dreads writing:

“You can’t leave 10. Not for a second.