Kian rode.
He didn't just bike. He fled. He was a prisoner fleeing the scene of his own crime, pushing his bike with a frantic, punishing energy. His lungs burned. His thighs were on fire. He welcomed the pain. It was real. It was his. It was a welcome, physical static that drowned out the other sound in his head—Silas's shocked, laughing voice.
Coach Kian!
He growled, a low, animal sound, and pushed harder, standing on the pedals, his bike skittering over the gravel as he hit the main road.
You melted! The puppy-dog eyes! They got you!
He had been seen. He had been caught. It was worse than being caught naked. It was like being caught in someone else's skin.
His skin.
The "voice." The "gift." The "curse."
He had... he had used it. Not just in a 1-on-3, five-minute burst of "pest control." He had coached. He had nurtured it. He had taken those kids and... and... taught them. He had corrected Milo's form. He had explained the geometry of a bounce pass to Ana. He had kneeled and taught a kid how to dribble.
And the worst part? The sick, terrifying, unforgivable part?
He had liked it.
The flicker of pride he'd felt when Milo's shot swished... it was a profound, soul-deep betrayal. It was the same feeling his father must have had, that cold, calculating pride in seeing a result. In seeing a piece of raw material shaped by a master's hand.
His hand.
The realization made him physically ill. He skidded to a stop at the bottom of his street, his chest heaving, trying to catch his breath. He was disgusted. He was humiliated. He was furious.
"KIAN! KIAN, WAIT UP, YOU IDIOT!"
He didn't need to turn. He knew the voices. More noise.
Silas and Ren pulled up on their bikes, both of them panting, having clearly chased him all the way from the quarry.
"Dude," Silas said, breathing hard, his face a mixture of concern and utter bewilderment. He'd lost his joking tone. "What... what was that? Back there? You... you screamed at those kids. You made that little girl cry."
Kian just stared at him, his eyes black, his face pale and slick with sweat. He was a cornered animal.
"Go home, Silas."
"I'm not... Kian, we're your friends," Silas said, stepping off his bike. "We... we were joking. I didn't mean... I didn't know you were going to... to explode. What the hell is going on?"
"You saw," Kian said, his voice a low, dangerous monotone. "You saw. So now you know. So you'll... you'll just... stay away."
"Stay away?" Silas looked genuinely hurt. "What are you talking about? 'Stay away'? We're not... we're not afraid of you, man."
"You should be," Kian said.
Ren, who had been silent, just watching and analyzing, finally spoke. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his voice that same, level, rational tone. But his eyes... his eyes were different. He was looking at Kian like a puzzle he had just realized was missing half its pieces.
"The affective response was... disproportionate, Kian," Ren said, as if diagnosing a chemical reaction. "The stimulus—Silas's teasing—does not logically equate to the... the rage... you displayed."
"Shut up, Ren," Kian snarled. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't... you don't know anything."
"I know," Ren said, his voice unwavering, "that I have known you for three years. I have meticulously documented your behavioral patterns. You are... predictable. You are the 'ice-cold prodigy,' the 'artist,' the 'genius who's too cool for school.' That is your 'brand.' But... that..." He motioned back toward the quarry. "That was not on the spreadsheet."
"What... what was that, Kian?" Ren asked, his voice softening, his curiosity overtaking his clinical detachment. "You were... you were good. Not just 'at basketball.' You were... a good teacher. You were... passionate. You were... there. And then... you weren't. It's the variable. The game. It... it changes you."
It changes you.
The words hit Kian harder than Silas's teasing. Ren, with his stupid, perfect analysis, had seen it. He had seen the transformation. He had seen the "gift" take over.
Kian felt a cold dread wash over him. He couldn't have this. He couldn't have them knowing. He couldn't have them watching him, waiting for the "change."
He had to cut it off. Now.
"You didn't see anything," Kian said, his voice dropping, all the previous anger replaced by a cold, sharp, surgical finality.
"We... we did, man," Silas said. "We saw you coaching..."
"You. Saw. Nothing," Kian repeated, his gaze so intense it made Silas take a step back. "You didn't see me there today. You won't see me there again. You won't talk about it. You won't think about it. And you... you won't ever mention it to me, or to... or to anyone. Do you understand?"
Silas and Ren looked at each other. This wasn't Kian. This was... this was scary.
"Kian..." Silas started.
"Do you understand?" Kian demanded.
A long, tense silence stretched between them.
"We understand," Ren said finally, his voice clipped. He recognized a threat. He recognized a boundary. "We... understand that you're... upset. We'll drop it."
"Good," Kian said. He got back on his bike. "And don't... don't follow me."
He rode away, leaving them on the side of the road. He didn't look back to see Silas punch his own bike's handlebars in frustration. He didn't hear Ren murmur, "The variable isn't the game. It's his father."
Kian just rode.
He rode up the long, white-gravel driveway of the Vance estate. The house looked perfect, as always. A monument to good taste and old money. A fortress.
He wheeled his bike to the carriage house, his movements stiff. He let himself in through the kitchen.
The house was... silent. But it was the wrong kind of silence. It wasn't "peaceful" quiet. It was "holding its breath" quiet.
The fight from last night.
He had... he'd forgotten about it. The day at the quarry had been so... so consuming, that he had completely forgotten the fact that he had gutted his own brother.
He walked into the main hall. He could hear it.
Thump... thump... thump...
A muffled, rhythmic, disciplined sound. It was coming from the home gym.
Kian's jaw tightened.
He walked, against his own will, toward the sound. He stopped at the massive, open archway of the gym.
Leo was there.
He wasn't running drills. He wasn't shooting. He was in the center of the court, on a practice mat, just... dribbling.
He was in a low stance, his eyes closed, his face a mask of pained concentration. He was practicing his left hand. Just his left.
Thump... thump... thump...
It was a slow, agonizing, workman-like sound. It was the sound of repetition. The sound of effort. The sound of someone who was not a natural, forcing himself to be.
Leo, lost in his focus, didn't see him.
Kian stood in the archway, his own hands—which had, just an hour ago, made a basketball dance with no effort at all—curled into fists.
He watched his brother sweat for a skill that Kian hated.
He watched the person he had accused of being "just like him" work to become something he would never be.
A profound, sickening wave of shame and guilt washed over Kian, so potent it made him dizzy.
You're just like him.
The words he had spat at Leo.
Coach Kian.
The words Silas had spat at him.
He was a monster. He was a hypocrite. He was... he was...
He couldn't breathe. He backed away, silently, from the archway. Leo never even knew he was there.
Kian needed... he needed air. He needed... he needed his grandfather.
He walked, almost running, to the library. The one room in the house that felt like a sanctuary.
Arthur Vance was there. Of course he was. He was in his chair by the fire, the Wall Street Journal folded neatly on his lap. He was just... looking into the flames.
"Grandpa?" Kian's voice was a rough, broken whisper.
Arthur looked up. His sharp, blue eyes surveyed Kian, taking in the... the entirety of him. The sweat-dampened hair. The haunted, self-loathing look in his eyes. The tremor in his hands.
Arthur didn't look surprised. He just... looked.
"Well," Arthur said, his voice calm, "you look like you've seen a ghost."
Kian sank into the leather chair opposite him. He couldn't speak. He just... stared.
"Or," Arthur continued, his gaze returning to the fire, "perhaps... you look like you've become one."
Kian's head snapped up. "What... what does that mean?"
"It means," Arthur said, "that you have been out of this house for three hours. You left... angry. You have returned... devastated. You have sweat on your brow. You have... a new kind of... shame in your eyes. A shame I haven't seen before."
He looked at Kian. "It's a look I have seen. But not on you. I saw it on... on him."
Kian flinched. "On... on my father?"
"Yes." Arthur's voice was sad. "On the rare day... the very rare day... when the 'gift' failed him. When he... he lost. Or when he... he was seen for what he was. He would come home with that same... that same 'hunted' look. Like the world had seen the... the strings. The... the mechanism."
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Kian lied, his voice weak.
"No?" Arthur smiled, a small, sad, knowing smile. "You, my boy... you have always been so angry at the man, that you... you punish the game. We've talked about this. It's your... your mantra."
He leaned forward, his eyes locking on Kian's. "But today... you don't look like you're angry at the man. You look... you look like you're angry at the game."
Kian's breath hitched.
"You've... you've always hated the idea of it," Arthur said, his voice a gentle, probing scalpel. "But today... today you look like you... you touched it. And it... it burned you."
"I... I..." Kian couldn't speak. He was seen. His grandfather, without any facts, knew the truth of it.
"You are not your father, Kian," Arthur said, his voice suddenly firm, pulling Kian back from the edge. "You are... you are my daughter's son. You are Leo's brother. You are... you. The 'gift'... the 'curse'... whatever he called it... it's just a... a tool. It's a... a language. You can choose to speak it. Or you can choose to be silent."
"It... it spoke for me," Kian whispered, the admission tearing from his throat. "I... I let it out. I... I hated it."
"Then hate it," Arthur said, with a simple shrug. "Hate it... but understand it. You cannot... you cannot run from a part of yourself. You can only... master it. Or... or let it master you. And today..." He gestured at Kian. "Today, it looks like... it won."
Kian had no answer. He just sat there, his grandfather's words, his brother's muffled dribbling, and Silas's laughing voice all warring in his head.
He finally stood up. His legs were shaking.
"I... I need to..."
"I know," Arthur said. "Go. Be... be Kian."
Kian walked out of the library. He walked up the grand staircase. He passed Leo's room, the thump... thump... thump a steady, muffled heartbeat. His brother's heartbeat.
He entered his own room. He locked the door.
He stood in the charcoal-grey silence. He was... vibrating. He was too... full. Full of anger, shame, guilt, and... and adrenaline.
He couldn't draw. Not like this. His hands were... corrupted.
He went to his closet. He pulled out the duffel bag. He unzipped it. He stared at the pristine, perfect, leather basketball.
He stared at it with a pure, cold, undiluted hatred.
This... this thing. This was the source. This was the virus.
He reached in. He picked it up.
He walked over to his desk. He sat down. He put the ball... on the desk.
Then he opened his sketchbook. He picked up his 8H pencil. The hardest, finest, most precise pencil he owned.
He was not going to play. He was not going to dribble.
He was going to draw it.
He was going to... to dissect it. He was going to... to capture it. He was going to sit here, for hours, and he was going to re-assert his control. He was going to master this... this thing... not with his hands, but with his eyes.
He was not his father. He was not a "Coach."
He was an artist.
And this... this was his exorcism.