Deadeye in Sight, Ghost in the Way

November 17, 1995 swept over Chicago's South Side like a restless wind, the sky a bruised slate hanging low, the air sharp with a late-fall snap that nipped at Elijah Reed's ears as he trudged toward Lincoln High. Game day pulsed in his veins—Englewood High loomed tonight, a fast, scrappy crew led by Tyreek "Ghost" Simmons, a 5'10" guard with a crossover that could make you dizzy and a step-back that stung like a wasp. Elijah's 5'5" frame felt coiled, ready—last week's 17-point dagger against Westside still glowed, his starter stripes earned, 735 VC banked in his secret system, a silent engine humming in his skull. No one knew—just him and the chime, plotting Deadeye at 1,000 VC (265 short) to lock his shooting, then height to stretch past his 5'9" ceiling toward 6'3" potential, 250 VC per inch. After that? Agility to dance, maybe Stamina to outlast—tonight could tip the scales.

School buzzed like a beehive, the halls a tangle of shouts and sneakers squeaking on tile, the air thick with pencil shavings and teenage sweat. Lunch hit the cafeteria hard—kids sprawled over tables, trays clattering, voices ricocheting off cinderblock like loose change. Elijah slid into their usual spot, a scratched-up table by the window streaked with November's gray light. Malcolm Lewis was already mid-rant, his lanky frame hunched over a pile of fries, waving one like a conductor's wand, his grin splitting wide. Derrick Hayes lounged beside him, soda can sweating in his big hand, half-smile steady as a rock. Jamal Thornton, the captain, peeled an orange with surgical calm, his chiseled jaw set, while little Reggie Carter—a wiry freshman with a mop of curls—bounced in his seat, eyes wide like he'd just seen a ghost.

"Yo, y'all catch Jordan last night?" Malcolm crowed, fry jabbing the air, voice bouncing with hype. "Bulls torched the Nets—113-94—MJ dropped 38, man! Third quarter, he's got Muggsy Bogues—5'3", tiny as hell—guarding him, right? Dude pump-fakes—bam—Bogues bites, jumps like a frog, and Jordan just holds the ball there, midair, like he's posing for a damn picture! Then—swish—drains a fadeaway over him, cool as ice. Muggsy's just standing there, looking up like, 'What just happened?' Whole crowd lost it!"

Elijah laughed, snagging a fry from Malcolm's stash—salt sharp on his tongue—leaning back, arms crossed loose. "Saw it—Jordan's a freak, man. Held that ball like time stopped—Bogues didn't even blink, just got cooked. 38's wild—Englewood's tonight, though—Ghost's got moves too."

"Ghost?" Derrick rumbled, voice deep and slow, cutting through Malcolm's whirlwind like a bass drop. "He's quick—5'10", slippery—saw him last year, crossed me so hard I nearly tripped over my own feet. But Jordan? That fadeaway was art—Englewood ain't got that kinda juice. You're starting, Reed—gonna bury 'em like Westside?"

"Damn right," Elijah said, smirking as he flicked a crumb off his sleeve. "Seventeen last game—three treys—Ghost's fast, but I'm faster off the catch. Malcolm's feeding me—right, man?—gonna light 'em up."

"F-feeding you?" Malcolm stuttered through a laugh, tossing a fry that bounced off Elijah's chest, his long fingers snapping the air. "Bro, I'm the assist king—those passes against Westside? Gold! Ghost's a pest—crossover's nasty, step-back's mean—but I'll sling you the rock clean. Grandma's still yapping—'Elijah's my sniper!'—hit 20 tonight, pie's yours."

"Pie?" Reggie piped up, voice high and cracking, curls bobbing as he leaned in, eyes bug-wide. "W-what kinda pie? Man, 17 was crazy—t-that last shot? Swish! I-I was there, screaming—I mean, uh, cheering—Englewood's got this big dude too, 6'2", slams everything. You gonna shoot over him, Elijah?"

Elijah grinned, nodding at the kid—Reggie's nervous energy was like a puppy tripping over its paws. "Apple pie, Reg—Malcolm's grandma's callin' it. Yeah, their forward's a bruiser—6'2", loves the paint—but I'm popping from outside. Ghost and him? I'll stretch 'em thin."

"Stretch 'em?" Jamal cut in, peeling his orange slow, voice steady as a metronome, a faint smirk tugging his lips. "You're a starter now—17's no fluke, 7-for-12's sharp. Englewood's scrappy—Ghost runs it, that forward clogs the lane. You drain threes like Westside, we're good—Malcolm, don't botch those passes."

"Botch?" Malcolm barked, slapping the table—trays rattled, fries jumped—"I'm a damn maestro—Picasso with the ball! Reed's the triggerman—three treys, that dagger? Ghost's quick, but Elijah's got the juice—Englewood's cooked!"

"Cooked's right," Derrick chuckled low, sipping his soda, the can denting under his grip. "Reed's a spark—Jordan's fadeaway's got nothing on that game-winner—calm as hell, Jalen flying by. Ghost'll hate you—Englewood's fast, but you're deadly off the ball."

Elijah's grin widened, the banter a warm buzz lifting his chest—starter stripes felt real now, Englewood a canvas to paint. "Gotta keep it hot—Ghost's a test, but I'm ready—Malcolm's dimes, my shots—pie's mine."

"Pie's yours!" Malcolm cackled, loud and bright—slapping his shoulder—"Grandma's betting on ya—Englewood's toast—Ghost's fast, but you're the king now!"

Laughter rolled like a wave, voices tangling—Reggie stammering, "Y-you're gonna kill it!"—Malcolm hollering, "Jordan who?"—the table a mess of fries and hype, Elijah's mind already drifting to the system, silent and waiting.

After school, Elijah lingered on the street court—dusk bruising the sky orange and purple, the hoop's shadow stretching long across cracked asphalt. He dribbled slow—right hand, left crossover—the leather warm, Englewood hours away. Last night's NBA flare burned—Jordan's 38, that Muggsy fadeaway a clinic—Bulls now 4-0, the 72-10 march humming. Tonight, Lincoln High faced Englewood—Ghost Simmons, 5'10", a whirlwind with a crossover that broke spirits, a 6'2" forward who owned the paint. Elijah's stats against Westside glowed—17 points, 7/12 FG, 3/4 3PT, 1 assist, 1 steal—735 VC banked, Deadeye at 1,000 VC (265 shy), his shooting begging for it. Height—5'5" to 5'9" stock ceiling, 250 VC per inch to 6'0" (1,250 VC to 6'3")—potential, not instant. After? Agility to weave, Stamina to grind—or maybe Vertical Jump to rise over Ghost's reach?

"System," he muttered, voice low, the ball stilling—thump—his secret humming. "You there?"

[Ding! System Active.]

A quiet thrill rippled through. "Good—735 VC—what's the move?"

[Current VC: 735. Options:]

Deadeye (Bronze): Improves contested jumpers—1,000 VC (265 VC short)

Height Increase: 5'5" to 5'9" ceiling, 6'0" (250 VC per inch, potential; 1,250 VC to 6'3")

Attributes: Agility 36/100 [50 VC per +1], Stamina 42/100 [50 VC per +1], Vertical Jump 35/100 [50 VC per +1]

[Recommendation: Target Deadeye vs. Englewood—starter minutes boost VC. New badge potential: Clutch Performer—elevates performance in final minutes, unlockable with clutch plays.]

Elijah's lips twitched—thump, thump—Clutch Performer danced in his head, a badge for the Westside dagger, maybe tonight's crucible. "Deadeye first," he thought, firm—shooting was his soul, Ghost wouldn't dodge it—then height to 6'3", then Agility or Stamina to outmaneuver, outlast. The ball spun on his finger—Englewood's test, VC to stack, a new badge to chase.

"Yo, Reed!" Malcolm's voice sliced the dusk—lanky frame bounding up, sneakers slapping pavement, grin wide as the horizon. "Still out here scheming? Englewood's tonight—starter king's ready?"

Elijah laughed, tossing the ball—thump—"Scheming's done—Ghost's quick, but I'm locked. You dishing clean?"

"Clean?" Malcolm snatched it midair—dribbling low with his left—"I'm a damn poet—those Westside passes? Art! Ghost's a demon—crossover's wild—but you'll roast him—Grandma's betting pie!"

"Pie's mine," Elijah shot back—swiping it—dribbling right—"Hit 20, Ghost's toast—you keep up."

"Keep up?" Malcolm cackled—slapping his back—"You're the triggerman—I'm the spark—Englewood's screwed!"

Elijah squared up—dribbling once, rising—swish—the net snapping clean, the night closing in, game time ticking near.

The gym pulsed by 7 p.m.—November 17th—a cauldron of noise and heat, the bleachers packed, red and black banners swaying like battle flags. Englewood High rolled in—Ghost Simmons strutting courtside, 5'10", lean and sharp, his fade tight, eyes glinting mischief—his 6'2" forward, Darius "Brick" Johnson, loomed beside him, broad and heavy, a wall with a scowl. Lincoln's starters lined up—Elijah at shooting guard, Malcolm at point, Jamal at small forward, Derrick at power forward, Terrance Brooks at center—Coach Daniels pacing, clipboard slapping his thigh. Martha's voice cut through—"Get 'em, Elijah!"—the crowd a roaring tide, popcorn and rubber thick in the air.

Elijah bounced on his toes—5'5", wiry, his jersey crisp—starter now, 735 VC burning, Deadeye in reach, Clutch Performer whispering potential. Ghost smirked across the hardwood—dribbling loose with his right, a quick crossover left—Englewood's speed a storm brewing. The ref stepped center—ball in hand—Terrance squared up against Brick, Malcolm grinning beside Elijah—"Let's cook, bro!"—the whistle poised, the tip-off a heartbeat away.