The gym pulsed with Saturday energy—sneakers squeaking, whistles echoing, students shouting from the bleachers.
Oakridge vs. Ridgehall.
A rivalry everyone loved. A rivalry everyone feared.
Aarvin tightened the straps on his shoes, the weight in his chest heavier than the ball in his hands.
It wasn't fear.
It was expectation.
Liam nudged him lightly.
"Relax, bro. Just play."
John grinned, cracking his knuckles.
"I wanna see what you can really do out there."
Aarvin took a slow breath and stepped onto the court.
The Match Begins
Ridgehall came in fast—tall, sharp, annoyingly confident. Every Oakridge mistake earned a smirk or a jab.
"Storm Boy! Lost your spark already?"
"Aww, careful, he might start crying like last year."
Aarvin ignored them.
Or tried to.
His game was decent—clean steals, solid defense, sharp passes—but the scoreboard kept tilting against Oakridge.
"They're everywhere," Liam muttered. "Bro… we're drowning."
John stayed calm, but his jaw ticked every time Ridgehall mocked them.
When one player bumped Aarvin and laughed,
"Gonna call your big brother Riyan for help?"
John stepped forward instantly, fury rising.
Aarvin pulled him back.
"John. Let it go."
But Ridgehall had already won that round—through words alone.
The Fall
By the final whistle, Oakridge was down.
Ridgehall cheered like kings.
Oakridge didn't.
Aarvin wiped sweat from his face, irritation simmering beneath his skin.
Then a Ridgehall player walked straight up to him and shoved his shoulder.
"Where's that Storm Pack attitude now?"
Aarvin didn't react.
John did.
He grabbed the guy's jersey and pushed back.
"Try that again."
The player sneered.
"Or what, transfer boy?"
And swung.
The First Punch
John ducked, then fired a clean punch that cracked the air.
Two Ridgehall boys lunged at him.
One aimed at John's back.
He never reached him.
Aarvin stepped in—fast, sharp—and punched the attacker square in the chest, knocking him back.
A gasp rippled through the gym.
Then chaos detonated.
Two Battles, One War
On one side—
John vs. two players.
Controlled. Calculated. Trained.
Every punch was precise, every dodge smooth.
He fought like a veteran.
On the other—
Aarvin vs. the one who started it.
This was not controlled.
This was instinct.
Unfiltered, raw, dangerous.
Aarvin tackled him to the ground.
One punch.
Then another.
Then another.
People screamed.
Referees ran.
Players from both teams tried to pull him away.
He didn't stop.
Something inside him had snapped open—something he didn't know existed.
And it felt good.
Someone whispered from the sidelines, horrified:
"…He fights like Riyan."
The Voice That Stopped Him
"AARVIN! STOP!"
Nairi.
Late to the game, backpack still on her shoulder, eyes wide with shock.
Aarvin froze for a second.
John grabbed his shoulder.
"That's enough, man. He's finished."
Aarvin finally pulled back, breath ragged, knuckles trembling.
The Ridgehall boy on the floor looked terrified.
The Aftermath
Ridgehall's captain spat,
"You're dead next time. All of you."
They carried their injured teammates off, muttering threats.
Oakridge players stared at Aarvin with a mix of awe… and fear.
John stood beside him silently—
loyal, unshaken, unafraid.
Nairi stepped closer, voice trembling.
"What happened to you?"
Aarvin didn't know how to answer.
Because deep down…
he knew something had changed.
He wasn't the same boy who walked into the gym.
He was something new.
Something stronger.
Something darker.
And as the Storm Pack walked out—bruised, limping, but together—one thing was clear:
This wasn't the end.
This was the beginning of a much bigger storm.