Che Louw sat on the bench, his body still, his headphones clamped tight over his ears, drowning out the chaos that thundered behind him. The crowd was a living beast—roaring, stomping, pulsing with energy—but Che had silenced it. Not because he didn't care. Not because he was numb. But because he needed to hear something quieter. Something more important.
His own thoughts.
We have to score. We have to score, or this'll be it for us. This'll be it for me.
The words repeated like a drumbeat in his chest, not frantic, not panicked—just relentless. They carried the weight of a season, of a promise made in the quiet of January, when the year was still young and full of fire. He had stood in front of his teammates, eyes steady, voice low, and told them he would bring the NCAA championship to Utah. Not for glory. Not for fame. But because he believed in something bigger than himself.
And now, with two minutes left in the fourth quarter, that promise was slipping through his fingers.
He glanced at the scoreboard.
UCLA 92 – 85 Utah College.
Seven points. Two minutes. A lifetime and a heartbeat.
The coach was pacing like a man possessed, shouting instructions to the other players, his voice cracking with urgency. Che barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the court, but his mind was somewhere deeper—somewhere heavier. He wasn't thinking about plays or percentages. He was thinking about legacy. About how people would remember him. About how he would remember himself.
This was not how he wanted to go out.
"Che! Che!" the coach's voice pierced through the fog, distant and sharp, like a flare in the night. Che didn't move. Didn't flinch. The coach finally shoved him, snapping him out of his trance.
Che blinked, turned, and looked at him. His voice came out low, steady, almost detached. "What's up, Coach?"
"You know what you have to do, right?"
Che nodded slowly, the fire returning to his eyes. "Yeah. Drive the paint. Kick it to Kyle in the corner. I got you."
He pointed at Kyle, who stood tall and focused, his yellow kit gleaming under the arena lights, his arm sleeve pulled tight like armor. Kyle nodded back, no words needed. Just trust.
"Good," the coach said, clapping his hands once. "Now let's get out there and play."
The ball was inbounded on UCLA's half. The air was thick—thicker than sweat, thicker than tension. It was the kind of atmosphere that made lungs feel heavy and hearts beat louder than they should. Che stood just beyond the arc, knees bent, eyes locked on the inbound pass like a predator reading the wind.
The ball touched his hands.
The crowd leaned forward.
He dribbled once. Twice. Then he exploded.
He surged toward the rim, slicing through defenders with a rhythm that wasn't just athletic—it was poetic. His body screamed layup—shoulders low, eyes locked on the glass—but it was a lie. A beautiful, deliberate lie.
UCLA's defense collapsed inward, drawn like moths to flame. And just as the trap closed, Che pivoted mid-air, twisting his torso with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a surgeon, slinging the ball to the corner.
Kyle was there.
Wide open.
Untouched by the chaos.
The ball kissed his palms, and in one fluid motion, he rose. The shot arced like a prayer—high, slow, spinning with perfect rotation. Time didn't just slow. It stopped.
Swish.
The net snapped like a drumbeat. The arena erupted. A tidal wave of sound crashed over the court—cheers, stomps, chants, a thousand voices rising in unison. Kyle's fist pumped once, subtle but electric. His face lit up with a quiet fire, the kind that doesn't burn out. The kind that stays.
Che didn't celebrate.
He turned, already jogging back on defense, eyes scanning the floor like a general reading the battlefield. That three wasn't a climax. It was a signal. The game was still alive. And he was still hunting.
UCLA felt the shift. Their players exchanged glances, recalibrating. Kyle was no longer just a role player. He was a threat. And Che?
Che was a problem.
They slowed their attack, no longer rushing. The ball moved deliberately, like a chess piece crossing into enemy territory. Then came the play—an isolation. Zayd, UCLA's star, squared up against Che.
The crowd buzzed with anticipation. This was the duel they'd been waiting for.
Che crouched low, eyes locked on Zayd's hips, not the ball. His breathing was steady. His mind was quiet. Zayd began to dribble, testing angles, probing for weakness. Then—a vicious crossover, lightning-quick.
Che staggered for half a beat.
The crowd gasped.
Zayd surged past him, heading for the rim.
But Che didn't break.
He didn't panic.
He chased.
Zayd committed to the layup, leaping with full extension. But Che was already airborne, a shadow rising behind him. The block was clean. Violent. Beautiful. The ball ricocheted off the glass, and Kyle snatched it mid-bounce, pivoting and launching a pass downcourt.
Jadon was already sprinting, legs pumping like pistons. The ball met him in stride, and he laid it in with ease.
The crowd roared again, a second wave of euphoria. Kyle and Jadon exchanged a glance—smiles, yes, but focused. They were still down by two. The war wasn't over.
UCLA called a timeout, their bench scrambling with clipboards and hushed urgency. Utah's players huddled, but they didn't need words. Their energy was volcanic now—raw, rising, ready.
Che stood apart for a moment, eyes drifting across the court to Zayd. The star sat calmly, towel draped over his shoulders, breathing slow. But Che's gaze lingered—not hostile, not mocking. Just focused. Uncomfortably focused. Like a storm watching the coastline.
The ball was inbounded. Zayd took it again, facing Che. He muttered under his breath, a half-admission: "You've been a pest all game."
But his smirk returned. He believed in his handles. He believed he could break through.
He tried.
Step-back. Jab. Spin. Hesitation.
Nothing worked.
Che mirrored him like a ghost, every move anticipated, every angle sealed. Zayd's confidence cracked. He passed—sloppy, rushed, frustrated.
Jadon pounced, diving for the ball like it was gold. He scraped it off the hardwood and, still grounded, flung it forward.
Che was already sprinting, a blur of motion. Zayd chased, fury in his eyes, curses in his thoughts.
The ball bounced ahead, and Che caught it in stride. The rim loomed. Zayd leapt, desperate to redeem himself.
But Che didn't flinch.
He double-clutched, faking the first attempt, hanging in the air like a question unanswered.
Zayd bit.
He was still airborne.
Helpless.
Che adjusted mid-flight, going for the second release.
And then—
Black.