The locker room at East Harbor High reeked of sweat, tape, and tension. Malik Torres sat alone at the edge of the bench, elbows resting on his knees, headphones in, eyes locked on the floor. The beats in his ears weren't just music—they were armor, drowning out everything but his own pulse.
Tonight wasn't a regular game. It wasn't even about school anymore. It was a statement.
Coach Bruno stormed in, clipboard in hand and fury in his voice.
"Malik, we're playing against Ridgeview Prep tonight, and I need you locked in—not just ballin'. I need war-mode."
Malik looked up. "I've been in war-mode since they crossed me in sophomore year."
Everyone remembered that night—Malik got benched, and Ridgeview humiliated East Harbor by 40. It was Malik's lowest moment, and the one Ridgeview's star player, Zeek Holloway, never let him forget.
Outside the locker room, the gym was packed—people who didn't even know what a double screen was had shown up just to watch Torres vs. Holloway: the rematch.
Malik stood, ripped off his warmups, and stared at the East Harbor jersey like it owed him an explanation. "This ain't just redemption, Coach. It's revenge."
Across town, Zeek Holloway was already warming up with his signature smirk. "You think Malik's ready?" his teammate asked.
Zeek chuckled. "Torres? He's flashy. But he breaks under pressure. Just wait."
He'd already had clips lined up for Instagram after the game. He wanted Malik humiliated again—but this time, on camera.
The opening tip was like lightning. The ball flew high, and Malik was already airborne. He snatched it mid-air, landed hard, and launched a no-look pass to Q, who slammed it in.
2–0. East Harbor.
The crowd exploded. Streetballers from Uptown, college scouts, even social media streamers—all watching. Malik wasn't playing for claps. He was playing for history.
But Zeek came back hotter than ever. Mid-range pull-ups. Step-back threes. Euro steps so clean, the ref double-checked his feet.
14–9. Ridgeview leads.
Malik felt the heat. Not from the gym lights—but from the expectations. He glanced at the stands. His mom. Isaiah in a hoodie. Even Kaia was there—arms folded, face unreadable.
Coach Bruno called a timeout.
Malik didn't sit.
"Give me the ISO," he said.
"You sure?"
"Coach," Malik said calmly. "I never ask. I'm asking now."
Back on the floor, the crowd leaned in as Malik dribbled up. Zeek switched onto him, grinning. "Same story, T. You freeze when it counts."
Malik didn't flinch. Instead, he bounced the ball between his legs—slowly.
Then once fast.
Then crossed right.
Then—
Snap!
He spun, dropped Zeek with a behind-the-back crossover that left the gym in stunned silence. Zeek slipped, hit the floor. Malik rose up, and—
Bang!
Three-pointer.
The crowd exploded. Phones out. Screams everywhere.
17–14. East Harbor.
"Don't blink now," Malik whispered.
The game turned into a war. Bodies collided. Trash talk turned into shoves. Q got hit with an elbow. Kaia was yelling from the bleachers. Even Coach Bruno had to hold back players from jumping off the bench.
But Malik? He was calm in the chaos. Like the eye of the storm.
Then, with 18 seconds left, tie game, 62–62—East Harbor's ball.
Timeout.
"You want it?" Coach asked.
Malik just nodded. His eyes said everything.
Back on court. Clock ticking.
10 seconds.
Malik dribbled past one. Behind the back. Crossover.
6 seconds.
Zeek switched again.
4 seconds.
Step back.
3 seconds.
He rose for the shot.
Zeek jumped.
Then—BOOM!
Zeek swatted the ball into the air—but Malik never released it. He pump-faked, let Zeek fly past him, stepped in, leaned—
Swish.
Buzzer.
64–62. East Harbor wins.
Pandemonium. Fans rushed the court. Phones everywhere. Someone was already editing the "Zeek Broken" highlight reel.
Malik didn't smile. He walked past the confetti, the screams, the celebration—and straight to the locker room.
But just as he stepped through the door, someone grabbed his arm.
It was a man in a sharp black suit. Silver badge around his neck.
"Malik Torres?" he said. "My name's Agent Kline. We need to talk. It's about your brother."
The cold dropped into Malik's chest like ice water.
"What about him?" Malik asked slowly.
Kline leaned in. "He's alive. But he's in serious trouble."