The sun was low, painting the underside of the clouds in a bruised, dirty orange. The quarry was cast in a deep, cold shadow. Kian stood on the top row of the bleachers, a ghost overlooking his own graveyard.
He was alone. They were gone. He had done it. He had finally, truly, become his father. He had abandoned them.
He stared at the empty court, the place where he had, for a few brief moments, felt something other than coldness. He had felt the "virus." He had felt the pride. And now, he had betrayed it. He had chosen his own, pathetic, social self-preservation over this. Over them.
Just like him.
The thought was no longer an accusation. It was a verdict.
He slid down onto the cold concrete of his spot and put his head in his hands. The silence was absolute. He had wanted quiet, and now he had it. It was deafening.
"Mister?"
The voice was so small, so tentative, it barely registered. It was a mouse, squeaking in a cathedral.
Kian's head snapped up. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He wasn't alone.
From behind the far set of bleachers, the set closest to the path, Milo emerged. He wasn't running. He wasn't smiling. He was just... there. He was clutching the strap of his backpack, and he looked small, tired, and very, very young.
He was alone.
"Mister...?" he asked again, his voice trembling. "I... I... waited."
Kian couldn't breathe. The other kids… they had been smart. They had given up. They had learned the lesson. Don't rely on anyone.
But Milo… he hadn't. He was a fool. He was... faithful.
He had waited, alone, for over an hour and a half, hiding from the world, just believing that Kian would eventually show up.
The pure, uncut, stupid loyalty of it was a physical blow. Kian felt it in his stomach, a hot, twisting shame that was so potent it made him nauseous. He had broken this kid's faith, and the kid... still... waited.
Milo took a cautious step forward, as if Kian were a stray dog that might bite. "The... the others left. A... a long time ago. Ana... she... she was cryin'. She said... you... you forgot us."
Kian's hands, resting on his knees, balled into fists. I did. I chose.
"I... I told them you were just... just late," Milo said, his voice a desperate, hopeful whisper. "I told them you... you had... you know... Mister stuff... to do."
He finally reached the edge of the asphalt, about twenty feet from Kian. He just stood there, his small shoulders slumped. "Why... why were you so late?"
It was the question. The simple, direct, impossible question.
Kian looked at this nine-year-old kid who had more loyalty in his little finger than Kian had in his entire body. He couldn't lie. Not to him. Not now. He couldn't say "I had homework." He couldn't say "I forgot."
He had to tell the truth. Or, at least, the essence of it.
"I..." Kian's voice was a rough, dry croak. "I had to... to meet... someone. Something... I... I couldn't... get out of."
Milo's face, which had been so hopeful, crumpled. The implication was clear. "Oh. Something... something more important... than... than us?"
Kian flinched. The innocent, childish words were a perfect, surgical strike.
Yes. I chose my own cowardice over you. I chose a girl I hate over a kid who trusts me. Yes.
"I..." Kian swallowed. He tried to say "sorry." The word was a rock in his throat. It was too small. It was an insult.
So he said the only other true thing.
"I... I chose wrong," he whispered.
It was the first, real, complete confession he had ever made in his life.
Milo just... stared. He didn't seem to understand the magnitude of the admission. He just... processed it. "Oh." He looked down at his sneakers.
He stood there for a moment, the silence stretching. Kian thought, This is it. He'll leave now. He'll finally learn.
But Milo didn't leave. He let out a small, tired sigh. He dropped his backpack.
"Well," Milo said, his voice practical. "You're... you're here now."
He walked over, picked up his basketball, and looked back at Kian, his eyes expectant. "There's... there's still light. A... a little. We... we can still... practice... right?"
Kian was... floored. He stared, his mind unable to compute. He had just confessed his betrayal, and the kid's response wasn't anger. It wasn't tears. It was... It's okay. Let's get to work.
Milo's faith wasn't in Kian the person. It was in Mister the coach. He was there for the work.
Kian looked at his own bag, at the sketchbook inside. He thought of Sienna, and her calculating, victorious smile. Guilt-Man. He thought of his drawing of Milo's betrayed face.
He had a choice. He could sit here, on his bleacher, and critique. He could be the cold, distant, safe observer. He could... run, again.
Or...
He stood up. The single, fluid motion made Milo take a hopeful step back.
Kian walked down the concrete steps, his sneakers silent. He didn't stop at the edge. He walked onto the cracked asphalt. He walked right up to Milo.
"No," Kian said.
Milo's face fell. "No...?"
"We're not practicing," Kian said. He held out his hand. "Give me the ball."
Milo, confused, just handed it over.
Kian took it. The familiar, pebbled grip. He hated it. And he needed it.
"We're playing," Kian said.
Milo's jaw dropped. "What?"
"One-on-one. You. And me. Right now." Kian spun the ball in his hands, his eyes electric, a cold, focused fury he hadn't had at the coffee shop. This… this he understood.
"You… you think your shot… is fixed?" Kian said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You… you swished… on an empty court. That's… that's nothing. That's easy. Show me."
He tossed the ball back to Milo, who caught it on instinct.
"Show me," Kian commanded, and he dropped into a low, perfect, suffocating defensive stance. "Show me it works… when… when it's not… easy."
Milo was terrified. And he was thrilled. He was… he was going to play him.
Milo dribbled. It was a high, nervous dribble. He looked at Kian, who was just… a wall. Kian's eyes weren't on Milo. They were on the ball. On his hips.
Milo tried to drive right. Kian didn't even move his feet. He just… slid. His body was there. Milo ran into a solid, unmoving object.
"You're… you're too slow," Kian said, his voice a low hiss. "You're… you're warning me. You're… you're looking… where… where you want… to go. Don't look. See."
Milo, frustrated, backed up. He picked up his dribble. He went into his shot. Knees. Elbow. L-shape.
He released.
Kian's hand was right there.
He didn't block it. He didn't swat it into the stands. He just… contested it. His hand, appearing from nowhere, flashed in front of Milo's eyes, just as the ball was released.
CLANG.
The ball hit the front of the rim. Hard.
"It's… it's not fair!" Milo gasped, his frustration boiling over. "You're… you're huge! And… and you cheated!"
"I didn't move," Kian said, his voice cold. He grabbed the rebound. "You… you faded… back. You… you saw… my hand… and you… you flenched. You let… me… beat you. And… your shot… is slow."
He passed the ball back to Milo. Hard. It hit the boy in the chest.
"You… you dip… your shoulder… when you… when you gather… for a shot," Kian said, his voice a low, analytical hum. He was connecting it. "Just… like… Dylan Riley. It's… it's a tell. I… I know… when… you're… going… to shoot. Fix it."
Milo was just… absorbing it. This was… this was more than just "tuck your elbow." This was… the inside. This was the secret.
"How?" Milo asked, his voice now trembling with focus, not fear.
"Your... your feet," Kian said. "You're... you're stomping. You're... you're gathering. It's... it's loud. Be... quiet. Your... your jab step... it's... it's fake. You... you don't... believe... it. Make me... believe... it."
Kian got back in his stance. "Again."
They played. For forty-five minutes, as the sun dipped below the trees and the quarry filled with a deep, purple twilight.
Kian didn't score. He didn't try. He just… defended. He was a wall. He was a teacher. He was… there.
He tore Milo's game to shreds. He pointed out every flaw. The high dribble. The "tell" on his shot. The lazy crossover.
And then… he fixed it.
"Your... your jab step... it's too long," Kian said, his voice now just a focused instrument. "It's... here." He demonstrated. A short, sharp, violent step. "Make... me... move. Make me... respect... it."
Milo tried. It was weak.
"Again," Kian commanded.
Milo tried again. Harder.
Kian… flenched.
Milo, seeing it, exploded to his left. He... he got... a step.
He... he drove... past Kian.
He... he threw up... a wild... running layup.
CLANG.
It missed. But... he... he got past.
Milo stood under the hoop, panting, his entire body on fire. He... he had beaten... Mister.
He turned. Kian was just... standing at the free-throw line. He wasn't even winded.
"Your... your drive... was... good," Kian said.
Milo beamed.
"...Your finish... was... garbage."
Milo's beam vanished.
"You... you prayed... it... it would... go in," Kian said. "You... you didn't... use... the glass. You... you didn't... protect... the ball. I... I could have... blocked... it... into... next week. You... you earned... the drive. You... you failed... the shot. We... we work... on layups... tomorrow."
It was… it was almost pitch black.
Kian walked over, picked up his bag from the bleachers. He looked at Milo, who was just… vibrating. He was exhausted, he was sweaty, he was learning, and he was happy.
"Tomorrow," Milo breathed, his voice full of awe. "You're... you're coming... tomorrow?"
Kian looked at the kid. He looked at the loyal, trusting, work-in-progress in front of him. He thought of Sienna. He thought of his own cowardice.
He was done running.
"Tomorrow," Kian said, his voice firm. "3:30."
Milo's face lit up.
"Don't... ever... wait... for me... again," Kian said, his voice a low, cold command. "I… will be… here. At 3:30. You... you be here. On time. And… and tell… the others. 3:30. Or… or don't… bother… coming."
He had just made a schedule. He had just made a commitment. He had just, for the first time in his life, promised... to... to show up.
Milo's face was one of pure, unadulterated joy. "Yes, Coach!"
Kian flenched. Hard. The word was a slap.
"Don't. Call me. That," he snarled.
Milo, not even remotely afraid this time, just grinned. "Right. Sorry. Yes, Mister! 3:30! We'll... we'll all be here!"
"Go home," Kian said, his voice rough. "It's… it's late. You'll… you'll get kidnapped."
"Nah," Milo said, grabbing his bag. "Who'd… who'd want… me? See you tomorrow, Mister!"
He ran off, energized, his sneakers slapping the gravel.
Kian was left alone on the dark, silent court. He was... exhausted. He was... drained. The "guilt" was still there. He had failed.
But... it wasn't a poison anymore. It was… fuel.
He had… he had a job.
He picked up his bike. He started the long, dark ride home. He was no longer just running from his father. He was, in his own, cold, analytical, Kian-Vance way... he was running against him.
He was building... something... out of... the ruins.