The truth burned hot and bitter:
Vorpal was dancing. Harbor was drowning.
But the Kings weren't corpses yet. Not Jet. Not Dante. Not Malik. Not Brick. Not Skyline.
Jet slammed the ball into his palms on the inbound, his eyes fire and venom.
"We're not dead. Not to them. Not to anybody."
He exploded upcourt, legs pumping, blur cutting left then right. Ethan shadowed him, but this time Jet didn't hesitate. The Jet Step snapped—low dribble, violent cross, and before Ethan's slide could cut him off, Jet split the seam.
He rocketed into the paint. Brandon stepped up, wall of muscle.
Jet didn't flinch. He scooped low, twisting midair—flicking it off the glass around Brandon's arm.
KISS. BUCKET.
The crowd erupted.
Vorpal 96 – Harbor 73.
Ethan's jaw tightened. He jogged back, murmuring under his breath.
(Good answer. But it cost you more than it cost us.)
