(Riki Dela Peña — Cubao)
The rain glows orange from jeepney lights.
Riki walks barefoot through the alley where he learned to dribble — cracked concrete, uneven ground, one rim half-rusted and tilting.
Kids still play there with plastic bottles as cones.
He calls out to one of them:
"Yo, you still running 'til ten?"
"'Til brownout!" they yell back.
He grins — same answer as always.
Flashback Cut-ins:
We see snippets —
Riki at age 13 stealing a half-deflated ball from a junk shop.
Playing on a road between passing tricycles.
His mother scolding him: "If you slip and die, I'm not paying for the asphalt!"
His father fixing tires nearby, shouting tips like they were gospel: "Use your left more — life's gonna hit you from that side!"
Present Time:
Riki sits outside a sari-sari store with his old crew — Jun, Lando, and Big Jay, all street players who never left.
They share a bottle of soda, arguing about the PBA on a fuzzy TV.
Jun: "Man, you changed, bro. You talk like a coach now."
Riki: "Nah, I just stopped playing for coins."
Lando: "That's what rich people say right before getting humbled."
Big Jay: "He ain't rich, he's just wearing shoes."
Laughter. A streetdog barks. Someone yells "ball!" in the background.
The Moment of Reflection:
Riki leans back, eyes on the cracked court.
He says quietly,
"This is where I learned what rhythm really is.
It's not drills. It's knowing when to move before the cops show up.
It's knowing when the rain hits tin — that's your shot clock."
They laugh, but it's true.
The music of his childhood was chaos — jeepney horns, shouts, puddle slaps.
That's why Flowstate came easy.
And that's why he's losing it now — the silence of organized gyms doesn't speak to him.
Later that night, Riki makes his way through the maze of narrow alleys back to where he and his mother live — a small room tucked behind a laundry line and a flickering streetlight. The roof leaks in two corners, patched with old tarps, but it's theirs. Inside, the air smells like soy sauce and vinegar. His mother is bent over a single burner, cooking adobo with the window open to let the steam out.
She looks up, smiles, and wipes her hands on her apron before pulling him into a hug.
"Still chasing that ball, anak?"
Riki grins. "Still running from rent."
She laughs, shaking her head. "At least you're still running."
He sits on the floor beside her while she stirs the pan, the oil snapping like rain on tin. Outside, a tricycle rattles by, its headlight sliding across the wall like passing memories. He watches her hands — worn, steady — and for a moment, the world quiets down.
She points to his worn shoes.
"You used to play barefoot, remember?"
He glances down —
"Maybe I should again."
He sits by the window after dinner, rain tapping the roof.
He drums his fingers on the sill, matching the tempo.
For the first time in weeks, the rhythm feels... familiar.
Closing Scene:
Riki walks to the alley court again, now empty and slick.
He drops his shoes by the wall.
Barefoot.
Dribble.
Echo.
Soft, dirty, real.
He whispers,
"I never lost the rhythm.
I just started listening to the wrong sound."
Cue slow-motion cut — him driving to the rim, fade to black with the sound of rain and heartbeat syncing.
End of Chapter 1 — "Where the sound began"