Night pressed heavy over Tete, the kind of heat that clings long after sunset.Floodlamps carved harsh light over a dusty futsal court ringed by corrugated metal and stacked crates.Smoke coiled from grills; coins clinked; voices rose like surf.
The Arena.
The five stood at the edge of the crowd, hearts loud in their throats.This wasn't the schoolyard of memory.This was hunger painted as sport.
Jabari whispered, "This… this is it."
Kwame scanned the stands. "Doesn't look like futsal. Looks like war with a scoreboard."
Malik frowned. "This isn't a game. It's gambling with goals."
"Relax," Tariq muttered. "We're only watching."
But eyes were already on them—measuring, marking.Outsiders never blended.
A man in a gold chain strutted along the sideline, toothpick between his teeth.Quim Matola.The Bookie.Every bet in the place seemed to orbit him.
A barefoot girl darted past, juggling a scuffed ball until it rolled away.Jabari caught it and handed it back."What's your name?"
"Meli," she said, clutching the ball to her chest before vanishing into the crowd.
Malik's voice hardened. "Eyes front. We're not here to save kids."
The whistle blew.The stands erupted.
A chant rose, rhythmic and wild:"Magician! Magician! Magician!"
Jabari's pulse spiked.Under the lamps, a lean figure in black strode onto the court, playing to the noise with theatrical spins.
"Is that—" Jabari began.
"No." Rashid's voice was certain. "That's not him."
Kwame studied the movements. "Too loud. Too proud. Enzo's flair had purpose. This is performance."
Still, the crowd devoured it.The legend had become a currency, and someone was cashing in.
Jabari's jaw tightened. "He's out there. The real one."
Then, behind them, a gravelly voice:"The real Magician doesn't waste time with scraps."
They turned. No one there.
But the words stayed.