The concrete beneath Kyrie's feet cracked under the weight of time and footsteps. The sunset carved long shadows between the housing blocks of Westlake. His backpack hung off one shoulder. His expression, unreadable.
But inside, everything moved.
Tryout complete.
Simulation successful.
He reached the hidden panel behind the dumpsters—muscle memory. Pulled out the waterproof case. Flipped open the notebook.
Simulation: Passed.
He shut it without a word.
Outside the gym, students crowded the bulletin board. The air buzzed with tension, voices tripping over each other.
"Yo, Jordan! Captain again?"
"Obviously. Man's a lock."
"Wait… is that… Barnes?"
Kyrie stepped through the crowd. Scanned once. Last name on the list.
Deliberate? Maybe. Didn't matter.
Jordan Kaito turned. His smirk faltered as he saw Kyrie. Then he stepped closer, taller and broader than most. Something practiced in the way he walked.
"You're Barnes, right?" Jordan asked, jaw tight. "Didn't even know you played."
"I don't," Kyrie replied. "I just win."
Jordan's laugh was sharp—but not whole. And in his eyes, for a flicker of a second—Kyrie saw it. Not ego. Not anger.
Fear.
Coach Dominguez's office reeked of menthol and burnt coffee. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes squinting like he was still trying to place Kyrie.
"You don't talk. You don't smile. You play like—hell, like you're dreaming plays before they happen." He gestured vaguely with his pen. "What's your deal?"
Kyrie leaned against the wall, unfazed. "There's no deal. Only execution."
Coach barked a short laugh, more tired than amused. "Execution, huh? Either you're a genius or a walking time bomb." He shook his head. "Tomorrow's the Divide Match. You're with the newcomers. Show me you're not just some weird fluke."
The field was alive the next afternoon. Divide Match. Newcomers versus starters. Pressure test.
Kyrie stood with the rookies. Nervous faces. Restless feet.
One kid looked over, wide-eyed. "Yo, that's the Barnes guy. The system one."
Another—tall, sharp-eyed, lacing his boots with focus—gave a low whistle. "Damn," he muttered. "Dude's got cheat codes."
Kyrie didn't respond. But he caught the name on the back of the kid's jersey.
Taylor.
Coach's whistle sliced the noise.
Game on.
First ten minutes: chaos. The starters played like one mind. The newcomers crumbled. One goal. Then two. Kyrie hadn't touched the ball.
On the sideline, Coach muttered, "Machine breaks under heat?"
Then Kyrie moved.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't flashy. He simply slipped into space. Found silence. A passing lane opened. The ball came. He didn't stop it—just redirected. Razor-sharp. Clean.
Goal.
Even the wind paused.
Taylor's eyes went wide again. Kyrie gave him a nod. Taylor nodded back.
The shift was on.
Kyrie repositioned like a metronome. No dribbling. No showboating. Just arrival—always one second ahead of need. Taylor started finding him. Others started following him.
Second assist.
Third.
Newcomers: 3.
Starters: 2.
And Kyrie hadn't shot once.
Jordan, boiling, exploded on a late counter. Speed. Power. Rage.
Kyrie stepped in mid-sprint. Intercepted cleanly. Ball gone before Jordan blinked.
Jordan hit the ground. Hard.
He sprang up, shoved Kyrie. "You think you're better than us?"
Kyrie stared straight through him. "No. I know I see more."
Whistle.
Game.
In the locker room, silence.
No one spoke to Kyrie. A few glanced. Most looked away. Jordan sat in the corner, stone-faced. Taylor stood near Kyrie, sweat still clinging to his brow.
"You… always do that?" Taylor asked.
Kyrie glanced over. "I observe."
Coach Dominguez walked in, arms crossed.
"Well. That was…" He scratched his head. "Something."
He looked straight at Kyrie.
"You piss people off. You don't talk. And you play like a damn ghost with a playbook."
A beat.
"But I'll tell you what—I'd rather have one ghost who sees the whole board than ten players with tunnel vision."
Kyrie grabbed his bag. As he passed, he spoke:
"If you want art, call a painter. If you want victory, give me the variables."
The alley was darker now. Streetlights flickered like dying stars. Kyrie opened the notebook.
Divide Match: Completed
Jordan Kaito = Unstable Alpha
Taylor = Sync Potential
Team Efficiency Shift: +17%
Coach Bias = Wavering
Variable Integrity: Holding
He paused. Then added a final line, underlined in red:
Proof of the Code: Ongoing.
He didn't play for fans.
He didn't play for fame.
He played for flaws.
And the Code had just found its first crack to exploit.