The Vega City streetball court crackled with tension, the midday sun baking the asphalt as Ryan Carter squared off against the masked man.
A crowd of forty-plus packed the chain-link fence, phones up, filming every second.
The six-foot-eight stranger, cap low and mask hiding his face, dribbled with a slow, menacing rhythm, his linebacker build looming over the faded lines.
First to seven, make-it-take-it, no fouls—pure street rules.
The masked man smirked behind his face covering.
"You're the pro, so I'll take first ball."
Ryan nodded. "Be my guest."
He took the ball, planted himself deep in the post. Ryan pressed tight, arms up, stance solid.
The stranger jabbed left, then right—sharp, deliberate—before spinning baseline with a vicious drop-step, using his shoulder to bump Ryan just enough.
He faded away smoothly, the ball kissing the net as it dropped through.
1–0.
Ryan, hands on hips, half-smiled. "Not bad."
