The sun hadn't even risen yet when Malik stepped out of his apartment the next morning. The streets were quiet—too quiet. Like the block was holding its breath.
The air smelled like burnt rubber and ash.
News of the chaos at The Pit had already spread. Everyone knew about the fire, the Vultures, the gunshots. But they also knew about the shot.
Malik Torres beat Razor King.
It was the kind of story that would echo in Blaze Point for weeks. But for Malik, it meant something else entirely.
It meant trouble.
He kept his hoodie low over his face and headphones in his ears—not for the music, but so no one would try talking to him. Not that it helped much.
"Yo, Torres!" someone shouted from across the street. "You got a death wish, huh?!"
Malik didn't stop.
He turned the corner onto Knoll Avenue, where his old friend Tre was waiting outside the bodega. Tre was shorter, leaner, always nervous, like he heard sirens that weren't there.
"You crazy, man," Tre muttered as soon as Malik approached. "You know who owns The Pit."
"I didn't throw the game, Tre."
"Exactly," Tre hissed. "And that's the problem."
Malik opened the door to the bodega, nodding at Old Man Cruz behind the counter. He grabbed a bottle of water and a protein bar—his pre-practice ritual since middle school.
Tre followed him in, eyes flicking side to side. "They're lookin' for you. Word is the Vultures lost twenty grand last night. You made 'em bleed."
Malik's jaw clenched. "Then let them come."
Tre stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "Nah, bro. You don't want that smoke. They ain't gonna shoot you right away. They'll mess you up first. Send a message."
Malik slammed the water on the counter. "I didn't ask to be a pawn in their dirty game."
Cruz looked up sharply. "Then don't act like a king."
Malik paused.
Cruz never said much. But when he did, it hit like a punch.
"You got a gift, Malik," the old man said, bagging the items. "But gifts make enemies just as fast as they make legends. Don't forget that."
Malik left the store with a knot in his stomach. Tre walked beside him in silence.
Finally, Tre said, "So what now?"
"I go to practice," Malik replied. "I've got a tryout in two days."
Tre blinked. "Wait—you're still doing that? After last night?"
"I have to."
Tre shook his head. "Man, you're either brave or stupid."
Malik stopped and looked at him. "Maybe both.
The rec center gym was nearly empty, save for the rhythmic squeak of sneakers and the dull thump of a ball. Coach Rice was already there, clipboard in hand, whistle around his neck.
"Torres!" he barked. "You're late."
"Didn't know we had practice today."
"We don't," Rice said, tossing him a ball. "But I figured if you were serious about that Calbridge tryout, you'd be here anyway."
Malik grinned and caught the ball. "I like how you think."
They worked in silence. Layups, dribble drills, pull-up jumpers from the wing. Malik moved with purpose, every shot an answer to a thousand doubts. He could feel the weight on his shoulders—his mom, his neighborhood, his life. But on the court?
He was free.
"You looked good last night," Coach Rice said between drills. "Real good."
Malik kept shooting.
"I also heard what happened after," the coach added, voice lower now. "You getting into some heat?"
Malik nodded. "Vultures were betting on Razor. They didn't like me winning."
Coach sighed. "Damn. I told you The Pit was poison."
"I needed the scout to see me."
"You also needed to live long enough to use that scholarship."
Malik stopped, hands on his hips.
"I can't stay here, Coach."
Rice looked at him for a long time. "Then don't screw this up."
Later that afternoon, Malik ducked through the back stairwell of his building. He didn't like coming in the front anymore. Too many eyes. Too many mouths whispering his name like a curse.
He checked the hallway first. Empty.
As he slipped into his apartment, the smell of burnt rice hit him. His mom was in the kitchen, pacing and on the phone.
"No, I said I'll get it next week—yes, I know I'm behind, but my son's got a shot, you hear me? A real shot."
Malik paused in the doorway.
She saw him and hung up.
"Where you been?"
"Gym."
Her eyes softened. "You okay?"
He nodded. "You hear about last night?"
"I heard enough."
Malik looked down. "They're gonna come after me."
His mom stepped forward and placed a hand on his cheek. "Then you run faster than they can follow."
"I don't want to run forever."
"Then you jump so high they can't touch you."
He smiled faintly. "You always say stuff like that."
"Because I believe in you."
Malik hugged her, and for a moment, he wasn't Blaze Point's most wanted. He was just a kid, with a dream and a heartbeat.
That night, as the city slept under a blanket of fear, Malik stood by his window, staring at the moonlit street below.
A black car crawled past.
It slowed. Paused. Then drove on.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Hope you enjoyed your win. Next time, we take more than just your name.
Malik stared at the message.
Then deleted it.
He turned away from the window, grabbed his sneakers, and went back to work.
Because in two days, he had a tryout.
And no gang, no threat, no shadow from the Pit was going to stop him.
Not now.
Not ever.