They called it The Pit.
Not because it was deep, but because once you stepped inside, it was hard to climb out. It was the kind of place where dreams went to die—unless you were willing to bleed for them.
The court sat in the middle of Blaze Point's Projects, surrounded by crumbling apartments and shadows that whispered. The paint on the backboards had peeled so badly they looked like molted skin. The chain-link nets had been repaired so many times they jingled like broken wind chimes. But nobody cared.
This was where the real games happened.
Malik Torres stood at the top of the key, bouncing the ball in rhythm with his pulse. His tank top clung to his chest, soaked in sweat. He wasn't just playing for the win tonight—he was playing for his way out.
"Twenty seconds!" someone shouted from the sideline.
The score was 68–68. One shot left. Winner takes everything. Not just the cash pot sitting in a duffel bag by the benches—but reputation, power, a step closer to the golden ticket: escape.
Across from him stood DeShawn "Razor" King, a streetball legend with arms like cables and eyes like razor blades. He'd been undefeated in the Pit for a full year.
Until now.
Malik gave him a smirk. "Still got those bad knees, old man?"
Razor's lips twitched into a snarl. "Still got that baby jump shot?"
The crowd murmured, hungry for blood.
Behind the fence, a man in a navy Calbridge Prep hoodie leaned against a rusted Chevy with tinted windows. Mr. Glenn, scout, recruiter, and gatekeeper to a better life. If Malik performed tonight, he was promised a tryout. A real chance. A scholarship. Out of Blaze Point.
Malik swallowed the lump in his throat.
Ten seconds.
He dribbled once, hard, and stepped to his left. Razor didn't bite. Malik knew he wouldn't. This wasn't about speed. It was about the moment. The heartbeat. The silence before the shot.
He crossed over to the right, spun, then stepped back behind the three-point line. Razor lunged.
Malik rose.
For a moment, the world froze. The ball left his fingers like it knew where it was going. A perfect arc. A heartbeat in the air.
Clink. Swish.
The Pit erupted.
People screamed. Some jumped the fence. Others banged the chain-link so hard it rattled like thunder. Malik stood in the chaos, heart racing, chest heaving, staring at the rim like it had just saved his soul.
Then he turned.
Mr. Glenn nodded once.
That was all he needed.
But in Blaze Point, nothing came easy.
As Malik gathered his bag, Razor stepped forward. His eyes weren't on Malik. They were scanning the crowd, tense. Angry. Dangerous.
"What's up?" Malik asked.
Razor didn't answer. He just muttered, "You shouldn't've won that."
The roar of a motorcycle echoed off the alley walls.
Malik turned just in time to see it—black bike, black helmet, black jacket with a red V slashed across the back.
The Vultures.
A Molotov flew through the air.
It exploded against the fence.
Screams tore through the night.
The crowd scattered in a panic. Malik dropped his bag and sprinted. Fire licked the chain-link, spreading like wildfire. The motorbike peeled through the court, nearly clipping Razor, who stumbled and rolled. Another bike followed—then a third.
Malik ducked behind a dumpster, gasping.
Why now?
Then he remembered.
The Vultures ran underground betting. Blaze Point was their home. Every game was watched, monitored, manipulated. And Malik?
He just messed with the odds.
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Malik spun, fists up.
It was Darnell.
"Yo! You tryna die out here?" Darnell hissed, pulling him down. "They're lookin' for you, man!"
Malik's eyes darted to the court. One of the riders was sifting through the scattered bags and trash. Looking. Hunting.
"For what?"
"For you, idiot! Razor was supposed to win! Vultures bet heavy on him. You flipped the script!"
A deep roar filled the air as a black SUV screeched around the corner, headlights blazing.
Gunfire popped.
Malik froze.
"Go!" Darnell pushed him down the alley. "They ain't gonna forget this!"
He ran.
Feet pounding. Mind racing.
He turned corners, ducked through alleys, leaped a fence into someone's backyard. His lungs burned, but he didn't stop. Couldn't. Not until the Vultures were gone. Not until he was safe.
Not until he was out.
By the time he made it home, his shirt was torn and his face was slick with sweat and soot. His mom was asleep on the couch, an empty bottle on the floor and a flickering TV still glowing.
He stood there for a moment, watching her breathe. Her face was thinner than he remembered. Her hair, streaked with gray.
"I'm gonna get us out," he whispered.
Then he crept to his room, locked the door, and slid to the floor.
He pulled out the one thing that mattered right now—Mr. Glenn's card.
Calbridge Prep.
Tryouts were in two days.
He had a shot.
But he also had a target on his back now.
And Blaze Point never forgot.