Malik woke to the sound of a fist pounding on the door.
Three knocks. Pause. Two more.
Not a neighbor. Not a cop. He knew that knock. It was coded. Street-level speak for: "Open up. We need to talk."
He slid out of bed, still in his gym clothes from last night. He grabbed the bat he kept by the dresser and crept to the door. Through the peephole, he spotted Darnell—face tight, hoodie drawn.
He opened the door slowly. "What the hell, man? It's six in the morning."
"You gotta come," Darnell said, voice low. "Now."
Malik blinked the sleep from his eyes. "What happened?"
"It's Razor."
The morning air smelled like diesel and rust. Darnell's old Buick rattled as they drove down South Alder, past rows of brick buildings that leaned on each other like tired old men. The city was still quiet, only the early risers and hustlers out.
"He's at Loma General," Darnell said. "Got jumped. Bad."
Malik turned to him sharply. "By who?"
Darnell's lips tightened. "They think it was the Vultures. But there's rumors flying."
"Why would they go after Razor?"
"Because he didn't throw the game."
Malik's stomach dropped.
Darnell continued, "Word is, he was paid to lose. Took the money, but didn't follow through. Maybe got cold feet. Maybe he just couldn't stomach it. Either way, he didn't deliver."
"And they think I convinced him?"
"Doesn't matter what they think. Somebody bled. Now they want more."
Malik didn't say another word.
Razor didn't look like a king in the hospital bed.
His face was swollen on one side, stitched above the brow. One arm was wrapped in a cast. The other hung limp, purple with bruises. Tubes snaked from his arms and oxygen pricked his nose.
He looked up as Malik entered, and even with one good eye, Malik saw the fire hadn't left him.
"Close the door," Razor croaked.
Malik did.
"You think I'm scared of 'em?" Razor hissed.
Malik shook his head. "I think you're lucky to be breathing."
"They wanted me to throw that game. Told me to make it look good, but lose. Problem was…" He coughed, then grinned. "You earned it."
Malik swallowed. "They jumped you because you didn't deliver?"
"They jumped me because I didn't give up."
A long silence followed.
"Watch your back," Razor added. "They ain't just sending messages no more."
Malik stepped closer. "I've got my tryout tomorrow."
Razor smirked. "Then get the hell out of Blaze Point. Don't look back."
That night, Malik trained like a man possessed.
The gym was empty—just him, a ball, and his demons. He shot until his arms screamed. Ran suicides until he nearly collapsed. The whole time, he could feel the clock ticking in his bones.
Every second he spent in Blaze Point was a second the Vultures could use to catch him off guard.
When he finally dropped to the floor, gasping, the lights flickered.
Footsteps.
He jumped up, grabbing the nearby mop handle like a weapon.
The figure emerged from the hallway shadows—a tall woman in a navy blazer and Calbridge Prep insignia on her chest.
"Malik Torres?" she asked.
He nodded slowly, breath still heavy. "Yeah?"
"I'm Ms. Atwell. Talent director at Calbridge. Mr. Glenn's superior."
Malik blinked. "Did I miss something? The tryout's tomorrow."
"It is. But I wanted to see what kind of player comes in before the lights are on."
She stepped onto the court, heels clicking softly.
"I saw the tapes," she said. "You've got raw fire. Uncut instinct. But you've also got chaos."
"I didn't start it."
"You don't have to. It follows you."
Malik wiped sweat from his face. "I'm not a liability."
She met his gaze. "Convince me tomorrow."
With that, she turned and left.
Back home, Malik barely slept. Every creak of the hallway outside made him sit up. He kept the bat beside him, phone on silent, door locked.
At 3:12 a.m., he heard it.
A soft shuffle outside his door.
He stood slowly, pressing his ear to the wood.
Nothing.
Then—slip. A sound like paper sliding beneath the door.
He crouched and picked up a folded flyer.
It was a picture of him—taken last night, leaving the gym.
On the back, scrawled in red ink:
"We see everything. You don't walk away."