Devin Brooks stared, his face a mask of disbelief that was quickly hardening into anger. "One versus three? You're insane."
One of his friends, a lanky kid named Mark, nudged him. "C'mon, Devin. He's a middle schooler. He's just trying to look cool."
"Fine," Devin sneered, his confidence returning. He was a high school freshman; this kid was in eighth grade. This was a joke. "Fine. 1-on-3. Game to five. You're on, you little punk. We'll even let you have the ball first. It's called a handicap. You'll need it."
Kian's expression didn't change, but he turned his head, his cold gaze shifting from the bullies to the small, wide-eyed children huddled by the side of the court. The skinny one, the group's defiant leader, was watching him with a look of pure, terrified awe.
"I have one rule," Kian said, his quiet voice cutting through the tension. He was speaking only to the kids.
The skinny one nodded, unable to speak.
"After I win, you can have the court," Kian said. "But you have to be quiet. No screaming, no yelling. This is a quiet place. If you're loud, I'll make you leave, too. Understand?"
It was a bizarre request, delivered with the finality of a judge. The children all nodded in unison, their game forgotten, their fear of the bullies completely replaced by their fascination with this new, strange protector.
"Good," Kian said. He turned back to Devin, who was impatiently bouncing the lumpy, worn basketball.
"You done talking to your daycare?" Devin mocked.
"Rules," Kian said, ignoring the taunt. "We play to five. Win by one. My ball. I have to clear it past the...," he glanced at the cracked, weed-filled line that might have once been a three-point arc, "...past the weeds. We're playing."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Devin laughed and tossed the ball, intentionally hard, at Kian's chest.
Kian caught it. Effortlessly.
His friends, Silas and Ren, watched from the concrete stands, their comfortable afternoon shattered.
"I don't... I don't get it," Silas whispered, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "He's actually going to play? He hasn't touched a ball since... ever, has he?"
Ren had finally put his novel down, his face angled toward the court. His analytical gaze was sharp. "I've never seen him play. I've only heard his brother complain about it. But look at his hands, Silas."
"What about 'em?"
"He's not holding the ball," Ren said, his voice quiet. "He's feeling it. There's a difference."
On the court, Kian stood just beyond the weed-line, the ball held loosely in his right hand. He didn't dribble. He just... stood there. Devin, Mark, and the third friend, a heavy-set kid named Ben, fanned out in front of him. They were laughing. This was ridiculous.
"What's the matter?" Devin taunted. "Scared to move? You gonna cry? Want your mommy?"
Kian's internal monologue was a low, simmering hum of irritation. He hated this. He hated the feel of the rough, pebbled rubber, a cheap imitation of the pristine leather balls his father used to buy. He hated the way the lopsided ball felt in his palm. He hated the cracked asphalt, which would make a true dribble unpredictable. He hated the sound of Devin's voice. He hated the smell of the court, a mix of rust and old rain. He hated all of it.
He just wanted the noise to stop.
He let the ball drop.
Thwack.
The sound was dull, absorbed by the cracked ground. He let it come back up.
Thwack.
Devin, seeing the first dribble, charged forward, his arms wide. "I got him! I got him!"
Kian watched him come. He saw everything. He saw Devin's sloppy footwork, his weight too far forward. He saw Mark, on the left, creeping in, ready to steal. He saw Ben, on the right, just... standing there, not sure what to do.
It was all so pathetically slow.
Kian took one hard dribble to his right, drawing Devin with him. As Mark lunged for the predictable crossover, Kian didn't cross over. He just... stopped.
He did a simple hesitation, a micro-pause so sudden that Devin and Mark, both clumsy and over-eager, ran right past him, their sneakers scraping uselessly on the asphalt.
Ben, the third defender, was now the only one between Kian and the hoop. He froze, his eyes wide, realizing he was suddenly alone.
Kian didn't rush. He didn't dunk. He didn't do anything flashy. He just dribbled calmly up to the hoop and, with perfect, silent form, laid the ball off the rusted metal backboard. It dropped through the bare rim.
Score: 1-0.
The bullies stopped, turning around to look at the hoop and then at Kian, who was already walking back past the weed-line to get the ball.
"He... he got lucky," Devin sputtered, his face flushing red. "You two idiots overplayed him! Don't let him do it again! Guard him! All of you!"
The little kids, who had been holding their breath, let out a collective gasp.
"He... he just walked past them," the skinny kid whispered.
"That was cool..." another breathed.
Kian got the ball. "Check," he said, his voice flat.
Devin angrily slapped the ball. "You're not scoring again."
This time, all three of them swarmed him. They formed a tight, three-man wall. There was no way through. It was 1-on-3, and they were taking it seriously.
"Now what, hotshot?" Devin snarled, crowding him, close enough for Kian to smell his cheap body spray.
Kian looked at the wall of bodies. Then he looked through them.
He saw the gap. It wasn't a gap, really. It was just the space between Devin's left leg and Mark's right. It was a space that would be there in half a second, when Devin inevitably shifted his weight to stop a drive.
Kian dribbled once. Twice. He faked right. As Devin's body shifted, the gap opened, just as he knew it would.
In one fluid motion, Kian did a low, lightning-fast crossover, putting the ball through Devin's legs.
A nutmeg.
Devin froze, the ball disappearing between his feet and reappearing behind him. Kian was already past him.
"He's loose!" Mark yelled.
Mark and Ben lunged, colliding with each other as Kian spun past them both, a simple, elegant reverse-spin that used their own momentum against them. He was at the rim again. He laid it in.
Score: 2-0.
This time, there was no talk of luck. Devin, his face now a furious crimson, turned and stomped his foot. "What the hell are you two doing? Stop him!"
"He nutmegged you, man!" Ben said, pointing.
"Shut up! It's our ball," Devin growled. "He's not getting it back."
This was the first time they would have possession. Devin took the ball, checking it with Kian, who just stared, unimpressed.
"I'm scoring," Devin said, and drove hard to his right.
Up in the stands, Ren murmured, "He only goes right."
Kian knew it, too. He didn't move his feet. He just let Devin charge, and at the last possible second, he shifted, his hand a blur. He didn't swat at the ball; he plucked it. It was a clean, perfect steal, like a magician pulling a coin from someone's ear.
Devin, his momentum carrying him, stumbled forward, his hands empty. He'd been pick-pocketed.
"What... how?"
Kian already had the ball. He was back behind the weed-line. Steal. His ball.
"This is getting boring," Kian said, loud enough for them to hear.
"You..." Devin was speechless with rage. He and his friends charged again. This time, they weren't just playing defense. They were trying to hurt him. They were grabbing at his shirt, their feet tangling with his.
"Get him!" Devin yelled.
Kian just dribbled, his body weaving through their clumsy, angry lunges. The ball was an extension of his hand, a yo-yo on a string they couldn't touch.
He was toying with them.
"He's... he's dribbling around all of them!" one of the kids whispered, his voice trembling.
"He's like... he's like an anime character!" said the skinny kid, his eyes shining. "He's so cool!"
Kian passed the ball behind his back to... himself. He dribbled between his own legs, making Mark fall over his own feet. He looked at Ben and faked a pass, and the kid actually flinched.
He was at the free-throw line. He stopped. He had all the time in the world. He shot a simple, perfect-form jumper.
Thwump. The sound of the ball hitting the bare rim and dropping through echoed in the quarry.
Score: 3-0.
"I... I don't believe this," Silas said from the stands, his head in his hands. "He's... he's humiliating them, Ren. Those are high schoolers!"
Ren was shaking his head, a slow, stunned smile on his face. "He's not just playing, Silas. He's... calculating. He's showing them, in real time, every single one of their flaws. It's not a game. It's a... it's a dissection."
Devin was hyperventilating. "My ball! My ball! I'm fouling him! I don't care! Just stop him!"
He got the ball, his hands shaking. He passed to Mark. Mark passed to Ben. They were too scared to shoot, too scared to drive. Kian was just... waiting. He stood at the "free throw line" in a perfect defensive stance, his head on a swivel, his eyes seeing all three of them at once.
"Do something!" Devin screamed.
Mark tried a desperate cross-court pass back to Devin.
Kian didn't even move his feet. He just lifted his hand and intercepted it. Steal.
It was his ball again.
"No!" Devin shrieked, and he and his two friends charged Kian at full speed. It wasn't defense; it was an assault.
Kian watched the three-man freight train coming at him. He didn't back up. He didn't flinch.
He dribbled right at them.
At the last second, he faked a high shot.
All three of them, in a desperate, uncoordinated panic, jumped. Their arms flailed, their bodies rising in the air to block a shot that never came.
While all three of them were in the air, their feet off the ground, Kian just... stopped. He palmed the ball, let them fly past him, and then took two casual steps to the hoop and dunked the lumpy ball with both hands.
It wasn't a powerful dunk. It was just... precise. A statement.
Score: 4-0.
The quarry was dead silent. The kids had their hands over their mouths. Silas and Ren were on their feet.
Devin landed hard, his ankle twisting. He sat on the cracked asphalt, his face a picture of utter, complete, and total humiliation. Mark and Ben just stood under the hoop, panting, looking at the rim, then back at Kian, as if they couldn't comprehend the laws of physics. They had been bullied. A single, smaller, younger kid had bullied all three of them.
"One more," Kian said.
He walked past them to get the ball. He dribbled slowly to the weed-line.
Devin, tears of rage in his eyes, got to his feet. "I... I'm gonna kill you."
"You can't touch me," Kian said. It wasn't a boast. It was a fact.
He dribbled once. Devin, in a blind fury, lunged at him.
Kian simply turned his back, protecting the ball. Devin slammed into his back, grabbing his shoulder. "I got you! You're trapped!"
Kian was about fifteen feet from the basket, on the right side. His back was completely, 100% to the hoop. Devin was pushing on him, trying to get the ball. Mark and Ben were moving in to help.
"It's over," Kian said.
"What?" Devin grunted, pushing.
Kian stopped dribbling. With Devin still on his back, Kian, without turning, without peeking, without any warning at all... tossed the ball over his head.
It was a high, arcing, backward shot.
And as the ball was in the air, still climbing toward its apex, Kian started to walk.
He didn't wait to see it go in. He didn't look back.
He just walked.
He walked past Devin, who had frozen in place to watch the ball. He walked past the stunned Mark and Ben. He walked toward the stands where his bag and friends were waiting.
Behind him, the quarry was silent. The only sound was the high, strange arc of the ball.
Thwump.
It hit the back of the rim and dropped perfectly, cleanly through the net.
Score: 5-0. Game.
The skinny kid let out a sound, a high-pitched squeak of pure impossibility. "NO... NO WAY!"
The rest of the kids erupted. "HE SHOT IT BACKWARDS! HE DIDN'T EVEN LOOK! HE DIDN'T LOOK!"
Kian reached the stands, picked up his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at the three high schoolers, who were still frozen, staring at the hoop.
"You're done," Kian said.
Then he looked at the kids, who immediately went silent again, staring at him as if he were a god who had descended from the heavens.
"It's quiet now," Kian said. He looked up at Silas and Ren. "Let's go."
As the three of them walked toward their bikes, leaving the stunned bullies and the awestruck children behind, Silas finally found his voice.
"Kian... what... what was that?"
Kian just shrugged, pulling his hood up. "They were loud. Now they're not."