The city had been breathing water for hours.
Rain streaked the streets, pooling in potholes, tapping on tin roofs like impatient fingers.
Under the bridge, the floodlights flickered against wet concrete, reflections bending in puddles.
Teo stood at the edge of the court, hood up, shoulders tense.
In his hand, a small envelope of hospital bills shook slightly with each heartbeat.
His father's name was on the forms — suspended in a coma halfway across the world, hope fragile, doctors uncertain.
He remembered the night before.
"Son," his father's voice had been weak but clear.
"I see it. I see you… happier these days. Are you… playing basketball?"
It had hit Teo harder than any loss on the court.
For years, his father hadn't smiled like that.
Then they'd put him under, hoping for a miracle that needed more than courage — it needed money.
A shout cut through the rain.
"Tower boy! You coming or what?"
Riki. Mud-splattered, hair plastered to his forehead, grin unwavering.
He had brought company — two neighborhood players, both quick on their feet and dripping wet.
"Meet the lineup," Riki said. "Temporary imports."
One was short and wiry, quick as a shadow.
The other broad-shouldered, quiet, and unpredictable.
Streetball regulars — not names, just faces that showed up for the game.
Bong, Riki's friend, slipped into position beside him, smirking.
"Still raining, huh? Good. The court's got defense now."
Riki bounced the ball, then glanced at Teo.
"Alright, skyscraper. Warm-up first."
The next few minutes were simple drills — dribbles, pivots, layups.
Rain plastered Teo's hoodie to his back.
Every step echoed with old lessons, every touch felt like chasing a ghost of his father's motion.
On the sidelines, a tall figure leaned against a pillar — hood up, silent.
Drei Reyes.
He wasn't there to play, not yet — just to watch.
Occasionally, he mimicked a footwork drill or a fake, quiet and precise.
Riki noticed, raising an eyebrow.
"Who's that guy?"
"Just watching," Bong said.
"Yeah," Riki muttered. "But he's watching different."
When the warm-up ended, Riki clapped.
"3-on-3. Let's move."
The rain thickened, streaking down their faces as they moved.
Teo dribbled, hesitated, then pushed forward — step, pivot, lift.
A soft layup. Rim. Drop.
Small success. Real, heavy.
The rhythm built — slick sneakers squeaking, voices echoing through the underpass.
The game wasn't about score — it was about motion.
Drei watched from the edge — every fake, every drive, every stumble.
Something in the way Riki adjusted, or how Teo began to find timing, drew his eyes.
The game blurred.
Riki called out cuts like music, Bong teased through passes, and Teo started moving like the rain itself — uncertain, then certain.
When he rose for a dunk, it wasn't planned; it was instinct.
The ball thundered off the backboard, splashing water and sound into the night.
They froze — even Riki mid-laugh, Bong mid-joke.
Then chaos returned — cheers, shouts, wet high-fives.
Teo bent, chest heaving, rain dripping from his chin.
The spark was back.
Not for glory, not for pride — but for something he couldn't name yet.
Riki clapped him on the back.
"See? Told you it's not just a kid's game."
Teo looked up, eyes tracing the hoop, rain stinging his lashes.
Something had awakened.
Something unstoppable.
The night hummed —
Basslines of rain and sneakers.
Coins of light shimmering in puddles.
And somewhere in that rhythm, under the bridge, something real began to form.
End of Chapter 4 — Rain and Rhythm