July 22, 2021 – Kingston, Jamaica
The morning after the cryptic phone call, Kyle sat on the small balcony of his hotel suite, the humid air clinging to him like a second skin. Kingston stirred below—vendors shouting, taxis blaring, the chaotic rhythm of the city as familiar as it was suffocating.
He held his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the call log. Unlisted number. No trace. No way of calling back.
For a man who had just won an NBA championship, the world should've felt open, limitless. Instead, Kyle felt the opposite—hemmed in by shadows, by whispers, by the one name he couldn't escape: Derrick Wilson.
Omar's AngleAcross town, Omar sat in his cousin's old Corolla outside a betting shop. The air smelled of cigarettes and fried chicken grease, men in mesh shirts leaning against walls with folded newspapers hiding their wagers.
