The arena lights burned brighter in the playoffs. The air tasted different—thicker, charged with something raw. Kyle "The Reaper" Wilson stood at half-court during warmups, rolling the ball between his hands, feeling the deep grooves of the pebbled leather. The nickname had followed him since his U16 days in Jamaica, when he'd ended a rival team's championship hopes with a game-winning block so vicious, the opponent's coach had called him a "grim reaper of dreams."
Tonight, Atlanta would learn why.
---
### **First Quarter – 10:52 Remaining**
**Celtics 4, Hawks 4**
Trae Young brought the ball up, his dribble lazy, almost taunting. Kyle crouched low, his fingertips brushing the hardwood. The Garden crowd roared, but all he heard was his own pulse.
"You gonna guard me or just stare, Reaper?" Young smirked, freezing him with a hesitation dribble.
