The warehouse lights flickered overhead like dying stars. Malik's heartbeat pounded in his ears, louder than the crunch of broken glass beneath his feet. Four masked figures stood before him, motionless, their shadows stretching long across the cracked cement floor.
He didn't run. He couldn't. Not now.
One stepped forward, tall and built like a linebacker, his mask painted with jagged flames.
"You survived The Pit," the man said, voice gritty like asphalt. "Now let's see if you're really ready for Blaze Point."
Malik squared his shoulders. His breath steadied. "I'm not scared."
"Good," the man replied. "Because fear gets you benched. Tonight, you play. But this ain't no practice."
A hidden door creaked open behind them. Yellow light spilled into the darkness. Without a word, the masked figures turned and walked through it.
Malik followed.
The room beyond was a massive, dimly lit gym—like an old church-turned-stadium. Chain nets swayed gently above a dusty hardwood court. Graffiti lined the walls, neon tags glowing faintly under blacklight. Bleachers surrounded the court, mostly empty—except for shadowy figures seated high above. Watching. Silent.
A metal scoreboard blinked to life.
Visitor: 0 | Home: 0
Then beneath it:
"Trial: Initiate - Malik Torres"
The masked man tossed Malik a ball. "You've got ten minutes. Survive. Score. Impress. Or you're out. For good."
Malik's palms burned as he caught it. Before he could speak, three new figures stepped from the shadows—each more menacing than the last. No masks. No mercy.
They weren't here to play. They were here to test him.
The buzzer blared.
Malik pivoted just in time to dodge the first defender—a wide-chested brute who lunged like a linebacker. He dribbled left, crossed hard, then darted past the second guy, barely missing a blindside hit.
The third one didn't move. Just watched. Waiting.
Malik launched into a fadeaway jumper. Net. Clean.
1–0.
The crowd murmured. A soft hiss of approval.
Then it got worse.
The second defender shoulder-checked him on the next drive, sending him flying. No foul. No whistle. The scoreboard reset.
Time: 9:11
The next minute was chaos. Elbows. Shoves. Blocks that felt more like punches.
Malik played through it. One drive at a time. One shot at a time.
2–1.
3–2.
4–3.
Blood trickled from his lip. His jersey was torn. But his eyes—his eyes were fire.
He wasn't just playing to prove himself. He was fighting to survive.
At the five-minute mark, the third man finally moved.
He was fast. Too fast.
Stripped the ball in mid-dribble. Took it coast to coast. Dunked so hard the rim screeched.
4–4.
The masked man on the sideline leaned forward. "Clock's ticking, Torres."
Malik wiped sweat from his brow, knees aching, lungs on fire.
Then he saw her.
A girl, maybe 18, leaned against the bleachers—hood up, eyes locked on him. Her stare wasn't judging. It was curious. Like she knew something no one else did.
She raised two fingers slowly, then pointed to his left.
A warning?
Next possession, he pivoted left.
The second defender jumped the lane—but Malik had already passed behind his back.
He exploded toward the rim, spun between the first and third defenders, and launched into a reverse layup.
5–4.
The gym fell silent.
The scoreboard paused.
Then it blinked:
"Trial Complete: Pass."
The lights flicked off—then back on, revealing a panel in the wall sliding open.
The masked man stepped beside him. "You've got heart, Torres. But this was just the front door."
They led him down a steel hallway. The girl from the bleachers joined them, her hood now lowered.
She had tight braids, silver hoops, and a scar above her right brow.
"You got a name?" Malik asked.
She smirked. "Nyah. I scout for The League."
"The League? You mean Blaze Point?"
"No," she said. "I mean the real League. Blaze Point is the last level."
They reached another metal door. Nyah typed a code into a panel. The door hissed open.
Inside was a locker room—but not just any locker room.
It was carved from stone. Lit by overhead cages. Jerseys from every decade of streetball history hung on the walls—signed, scarred, bloodied.
"Welcome," Nyah whispered. "To the Underground."
Malik changed out of his torn shirt into a dark-red Blaze Point hoodie. His hands trembled—not from fear, but adrenaline.
A holographic board glowed on the wall, showing dozens of names.
One read:
"Malik Torres – Level 0 – Status: Initiate"
Another:
"Javari 'Black Ice' Hill – Level 5 – Status: Active"
He froze.
"Black Ice is in Blaze Point?"
Nyah nodded. "And he remembers you. Said if you ever showed up again, he'd make sure you left limping."
Malik clenched his fists. Javari was the reason he had that scar on his jaw. The reason his brother gave up on the streets.
He was here for vengeance. And validation.
"Your next game's tomorrow night," Nyah said. "Don't miss it. They won't wait."
"What's the catch?" Malik asked.
She handed him a phone—no signal, no apps. Just one calendar notification.
"Midnight Match – Street Cage 3 – vs. Unknown"
She leaned close. "You're playing for your life, Malik. Blaze Point isn't about trophies."
"What's it about, then?"
She smirked. "Legacy. And war."
Outside, rain fell in sheets as Malik stepped into the night. He tucked the Blaze Point hoodie tighter around him.
From across the alley, a dark SUV idled. Tinted windows. No plates.
As he passed it, the passenger window rolled down halfway.
Inside sat an old man with gold rings and a wide grin.
"Welcome to the real game, kid," he said. "Better keep your head on a swivel."
Then the SUV peeled off.
Malik stared down the alley. Somewhere behind those walls, behind those steel doors, his name had just entered a world where rules didn't exist.
He wasn't just playing for glory anymore.
He was playing for his future.
For his name.
For Blaze Point.