Evan stepped up to the free-throw line.
His hands trembled—not from fear.
From adrenaline.
His heart pounded like a drum in his ears. The kind of rhythm that usually meant go, run, fight. But now, he had to stand still. One shot. One point.
He'd practiced this shot more times than he could count.
(Hundreds...)
(No—thousands.)
The repetition was muscle memory. The form etched into his bones. But this wasn't practice. This was war. The air was heavy, thick with breathless silence. A thousand eyes bore into him from the stands. Teammates held their breath. Opponents watched like predators in still grass.
And somewhere in that forest of noise and light, the weight of an entire quarter rested on the rim.
Behind him, just outside the arc, Lucas stood tall.
He didn't shift.
Didn't say a word.
Didn't even glance at Evan.
His eyes were locked forward—focused solely on him.
Elijah Rainn.
Number 5. The shadow walker. The tempo thief.
