Vorpal 138 – Harbor Kings 87.
Numbers that did more than end a game; they carved a wound into the arena's bones.
The locker room smelled of sweat, spilled blood, and a silence that felt like a physical weight thick, oppressive, the kind that made lungs ache. It wasn't the hush of peace. It was the hush of something broken and refusing to make noise.
Jamal "Jet" Robinson sat at the far end of the bench, shoulders hunched, head buried in both hands. Jet had always been speed and swagger, an uncatchable blur that defined him. Tonight the blur had found a wall. Ethan Albarado had not run him down; he had contained him quietly, relentlessly until Jet's speed was only motion with nowhere to go.
"Why… why couldn't I shake him?" he asked the air, voice thin and ragged.
No answer came.
