Hunted on the Hardwood (2in1)

November 17, 1995 swept over Chicago's South Side like a restless wind, the morning sky sagging low and heavy, a mottled gray streaked with bruised clouds that seemed to press against the rooftops. A sharp, late-fall chill bit at Elijah Reed's ears as he trudged toward Lincoln High, his breath puffing out in faint wisps that curled and vanished in the crisp air. His sneakers scuffed across wet pavement, kicking through soggy leaves and the occasional crumpled candy wrapper, each step a quiet drumbeat of anticipation. Game day pulsed in his chest, a steady rhythm that quickened as he thought of Englewood High waiting under the gym lights tonight—a fast, scrappy squad led by Tyreek "Ghost" Simmons, a 5'10" guard whose crossover could unravel your confidence and whose step-back landed like a sucker punch. Elijah's 5'5" frame thrummed with energy, taut and wired from a week of rest and drills. Westside's 17-point dagger last Friday still burned bright in his memory, his new starter stripes gleaming like a hard-earned trophy. Inside his mind, a secret system hummed quietly, 735 VC banked from that win, a hidden engine only he could hear. He plotted in silence: Deadeye at 1,000 VC, just 265 short, to sharpen his jumper under pressure; then height, stretching past his 5'9" natural ceiling toward 6'3" potential at 250 VC per inch. After that, perhaps Agility to slip through defenses or Stamina to outlast them—tonight could tilt the scales.

Lincoln High's halls burst with life as he pushed through the double doors, the air thick with the stale musk of teenage sweat, cheap cologne wafting from over-sprayed jackets, and the faint graphite bite of pencils chewed down to stubs. Lockers slammed shut with metallic thuds, reverberating like an offbeat drumline, while sneakers squeaked against scuffed tile floors, leaving faint streaks of rubber in their wake. Lunch hour crashed into the cafeteria like a storm, tables sprawling in chaotic clumps, trays clattering as kids shoved them aside, voices ricocheting off cinderblock walls in a tangle of shouts, laughs, and half-finished stories. Elijah slid into their usual spot, a scratched-up table pressed against a window streaked with November's dull glare, condensation beading cold against the glass, framing the gray world outside. Malcolm Lewis was already mid-rant, his lanky frame hunched over a pile of greasy fries, one waving in his hand like a preacher's pointer, his grin so wide it threatened to split his face in two. Derrick Hayes lounged beside him, 6'3" of quiet muscle, a soda can glistening with sweat in his broad palm, his half-smile steady as a pulse. Jamal Thornton, the captain, sat peeling an orange with surgical calm, rind curling under his nails, his chiseled jaw set firm, while Reggie Carter, a wiry freshman with a wild mop of curls, bounced in his seat, knees jittering like he'd downed too much sugar.

"You all catch Jordan last night?" Malcolm crowed, his voice pitching high with uncontained excitement, spit flecks catching the light as he leaned forward, fry stabbing the air. "Bulls smoked the Nets, 113-94—MJ dropped 38, fam! Third quarter, he's got Muggsy Bogues on him, 5'3", tiny as a damn mouse, right? Pump-fakes, bam, Muggsy bites, jumps like a jackrabbit on springs, and Jordan just holds it there, midair, ball dangling like he's taunting the whole world. Then, swish, fades over him, smooth as silk—Muggsy's just standing there, staring up like a lost kid at the fair. Crowd lost their minds, 'MJ! MJ!', like church letting out on Easter!"

Elijah laughed, snagging a fry from Malcolm's stash, the salt zinging sharp against his tongue as he leaned back, arms draped loose over his chair. "Caught it—Jordan's unreal, man. Hung there like gravity took a break—Muggsy didn't even twitch, just ate the fadeaway raw. 38's wild—Englewood's tonight, though—Ghost's got his own tricks up his sleeve."

"Ghost?" Derrick rumbled, his voice rolling low and slow, cutting through Malcolm's whirlwind like a foghorn through mist, the soda can denting slightly under his grip as he took a sip, bubbles hissing faintly. "He's a blur, 5'10", slippery as soap—saw him last year, crossed me so hard I nearly ate the floor face-first. Jordan's fade was gold, but Ghost? He's trouble—you're starting, Reed—gonna torch him like you did Westside?"

"Damn straight," Elijah said, smirking as he flicked a fry crumb off his sleeve with a casual twitch, his eyes glinting sharp beneath the calm. "Seventeen last game, three treys—Ghost's quick, but I'm quicker off the catch. Malcolm's dishing, right? Gonna burn 'em down tonight."

"Dishing?" Malcolm stuttered through a laugh, tossing a fry that thwacked Elijah's chest and bounced to the table, his long fingers snapping the air like a whip cracking. "I'm the assist lord—those Westside passes? Pure silk, fam! Ghost's a menace—crossover's nasty, step-back's a dagger—I saw him last season, had me stumbling like a drunk fool—but I'll sling it clean. Grandma's still hyped, 'Elijah's my shooter!'—hit 20 tonight, pie's locked!"

"Pie?" Reggie piped up, his voice cracking high and thin, curls bouncing as he leaned in, eyes popping wide like he'd just seen a UFO land, bony hands fidgeting with a napkin he'd already shredded into confetti. "What kind? Man, 17 was wild—that last shot? Swish! I was there, yelling—well, uh, cheering—Englewood's got this big dude, 6'2", slams everything. You shooting over him, Elijah?"

Elijah grinned, nodding at Reggie—the kid's nervous buzz was like a wind-up toy teetering on the edge of a shelf. "Apple pie, Reg—Malcolm's grandma's calling it. Yeah, their forward's a tank, 6'2", owns the paint—but I'm firing from deep. Ghost and him? I'll stretch 'em 'til they snap."

"Stretch 'em?" Jamal cut in, peeling his orange slow, rind curling in tight spirals under his nails, his voice steady as a metronome, a sly smirk tugging the corner of his lips. "Starter now—17's no fluke, 7-for-12's tight. Englewood's scrappy—Ghost runs it, that forward clogs the lane. You hit threes like Westside, we're set—Malcolm, don't flub those passes."

"Flub?" Malcolm barked, slapping the table so hard the trays jolted, fries scattering like shrapnel across the scratched wood. "I'm a damn wizard—Picasso with the rock! Reed's the gunner—three treys, that Westside dagger? Ghost's fast, but Elijah's got the sauce—Englewood's toast!"

"Toast's right," Derrick chuckled low, sipping his soda, the bubbles hissing as the can crumpled slightly in his fist, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Reed's a flame—Jordan's fade ain't got nothing on that game-winner—cool as ice, Jalen flailing like a clown. Ghost'll hate you—Englewood's quick, but you're lethal off the catch."

Elijah's grin stretched wide, the banter stoking a fire that warmed his chest—starter stripes felt like armor now, Englewood a battlefield begging for his mark. "Gotta keep it blazing—Ghost's a test, but I'm set—Malcolm's dimes, my buckets—pie's mine."

"Pie's yours!" Malcolm cackled, loud and wild, slapping Elijah's shoulder with a force that rocked him forward, his laugh echoing off the walls. "Grandma's betting big—Englewood's cooked—Ghost's slick, but you're the boss now!"

Laughter swelled like a tide, crashing over the table—Reggie stammering, "You're gonna crush it!" through a nervous giggle, Malcolm hollering, "Jordan who?" over the din, the table a mess of scattered fries and uncontained hype. Elijah's mind slipped inward, his system ticking silently, a secret pulse beneath the noise.

By 7 p.m., Lincoln High's gym had morphed into a cauldron on the brink, the air thick and heavy, saturated with the sour reek of sweat-soaked jerseys, the buttery haze of popcorn drifting from the concession stand, and the sharp, waxy tang of polished hardwood gleaming under the buzzing fluorescent lights. The bleachers groaned under a packed house, red and black banners rippling like war flags in a restless breeze, kids stomping their sneakers against the metal risers until the sound reverberated like a drumroll, parents hollering until their voices cracked, the noise swelling into a living, breathing beast that pulsed against the cinderblock walls. Englewood High swaggered in, their green-and-white uniforms stark against the sea of red, their players lean and hungry, eyes glinting with the edge of a team that had pored over every frame of Lincoln's tape. Elijah felt it—the weight of Westside's 17 points draping over him like a spotlight, a neon target glowing bright. Westside had underestimated him—Englewood wasn't about to repeat that mistake.

Tyreek "Ghost" Simmons strutted courtside, 5'10" and wiry as a coiled spring, his fade carved razor-tight, spinning the ball on his fingertips with a lazy, practiced ease. His smirk was slow and deliberate, not reaching his eyes—those burned, sharp and predatory, locking onto Elijah from ten feet away. "Hope you kissed your mama before tip-off, short stack," he drawled, his voice smooth as oil but edged with a switchblade's bite, the ball bouncing slow, thump-thump, in a taunting rhythm. "'Cause it's gonna be a long, ugly night—better brace yourself."

Elijah popped his gum, letting it crack loud, grinning wide with a flash of teeth as he flicked the ball to Malcolm for warm-ups, the leather smacking his palms with a satisfying thud. "Don't sweat it," he shot back, his voice light but threaded with steel, his grin unwavering. "I'll save that for when I'm raining buckets on your dome—keep watching."

Ghost chuckled low, shaking his head as he tightened his dribble, thump-thump, sneakers squeaking faintly against the hardwood, his smirk twisting sharper. "Buckets? Nah, kid—we watched the tape. You love those little screens, catch-and-pop—cute trick. That's dead tonight—locked tight. Ever tried scoring with my hand stitched to your chest? Good luck."

Elijah kept his face loose, chewing slow, cool as a winter breeze, but his gut tightened for a split second, a quick twist he buried fast. They'd clocked him—dissected every move, every tendency. Malcolm nudged him as they jogged to the lineup, shoulder bumping his, voice a low hum under the crowd's swelling roar. "They're yapping a lot for a team that ain't faced us yet—Ghost's got a mouth on him."

"They've studied us," Elijah muttered back, eyes flicking to Ghost's smirk as he spun the ball, taunting still. "Coach better switch it up quick—or we're cooked."

The whistle pierced the air, a shrill scream that cut through the din, signaling game on. Terrance Brooks, 6'2" and lean with a bouncy step, lined up for the tip against Englewood's bruiser, Darius "Brick" Johnson, 6'2" and 210 pounds of raw bulk, his shoulders broad as a linebacker, his scowl etched deep into his face. The ref lofted the ball, a high, glinting arc under the buzzing fluorescents, and Brick's meaty paw swatted it down with a resounding crack, sending it straight to Ghost, who snagged it mid-stride, dribbling low with his right hand, a blur of green streaking into Lincoln's half. Malcolm lunged, arms wide to cut him off, but Ghost stopped sharp, snapped a crossover left, the ball bouncing hard, then spun back right, leaving Malcolm's sneakers skidding as his feet tangled in a frantic shuffle. Jamal Thornton darted up, 6'2" and chiseled, hands high to contest, but Ghost faded back, smooth and liquid, his jumper arcing clean through the air, splash, the net barely rippling.

"Bang!" the announcer's voice boomed over the crackling PA, a howl that rattled the rafters. "Ghost Simmons—pure magic out the gate!"

The gym erupted, Englewood's bench leaping to their feet, green-clad fans roaring, a wave of sound crashing down like a tidal surge. "Too easy, fam!" Ghost crowed, backpedaling slow, dribbling loose now, grinning wide with a chipped tooth flashing in the light. "Better send two if you wanna slow me down—short stack's toast already!"

Elijah's jaw clenched, a sharp, quick flex—they had to hit back fast. Malcolm scooped the inbounds, dribbling up with a loose swagger, right hand low, waving Elijah to move. He sprinted left, cutting hard off a screen from Derrick, 6'3" of muscle planting firm, but Ghost was there, shadow-tight, jersey-to-jersey, his hand clawing at Elijah's chest like a stubborn burr. No pass came—Malcolm pivoted, dribbling twice with his right, then kicked it inside to Derrick instead. Brick loomed, broad and heavy, bodying Derrick up with a grunt, forcing his fadeaway jumper to torque awkwardly midair, clank, bouncing hard off the rim's edge.

Ghost snatched the rebound, dribbling fast with his left, pushing transition with a predator's stride, then whipped a no-look pass, sharp and blind, to Rico Spencer, Englewood's shooting guard, 5'11" and wiry, all elbows, lurking in the corner. Rico caught it, dribbling once left, then rose up, swish, a three that stung like a slap across the face. 5-0, Englewood, thirty seconds in—Lincoln's bench froze, the crowd's roar tilting green as Elijah's stomach sank.

Coach Daniels bellowed for a timeout, his clipboard smacking his thigh as he stormed into the huddle, face flushed red as a stoplight. "They're denying Reed like he's Jordan—we're flat-footed out there! New looks—Jamal, Malcolm—double screens, fake hand-offs—keep 'em scrambling!" Elijah wiped sweat off his brow, beads hot against his skin, his breath deep and ragged. This was a street fight now, and they were already bloodied.

Back on the court, Malcolm ran a dummy play, dribbling right, faking a chest pass to Elijah—Ghost bit half a step—then swung it cross-court to Jamal with a bounce pass, low and quick. Elijah darted, finding half a heartbeat of freedom—Jamal hit him in stride, the ball smacking his palms—he rose up, Ghost crashing in, shoulder slamming his ribs as the whistle screamed, the ball dropping, swish.

"AND ONE!" the announcer roared, voice cracking with strain, the gym shaking like a quake had hit. "Elijah Reed—ice in his veins!"

"Yes, baby!" Martha's holler cut through, high and fierce, her fists pumping in the stands above the chaos. "That's my boy!"

Elijah stepped over Ghost, sprawled on the hardwood, grinning tight as he popped his gum. "Hand in my jersey? Didn't stop that—guess your tape skipped a chapter."

Ghost snorted, hauling himself up, dusting his shorts with a flick, his smirk twisting sharp. "Lucky bounce, shorty—enjoy it while it lasts." Elijah cashed the free throw, wrist flicking smooth, swish, bringing it to 5-3, the crowd rocking red again, a surge of hope rippling through the stands.

Englewood didn't flinch—they ran a triangle set, Brick catching the ball in the post, dribbling once with his right as Elijah tracked Ghost creeping along the baseline, eyes flicking quick—then Ghost cut backdoor, sharp and silent, Brick lobbing it over Derrick's reach for an easy layup, 7-3. Elijah exhaled hard through his nose—they were razor-edged tonight, every move precise.

The second quarter saw Lincoln clawing back, Elijah breaking loose off a staggered screen from Malcolm and Derrick stacking tight, dribbling once left to adjust, catching Malcolm's zip pass chest-high, rising over Rico's late lunge for a three, splash, narrowing it to 7-6. But Englewood pressed harder—Ghost hounded every pass like a shadow, Brick clogged the paint with his bulk—Derrick's hook shot clanked off the iron, Jamal's drive got swallowed by a double-team, and by halftime, it was 32-25, Englewood's lead a gut punch that silenced the red half of the gym. Coach raged in the locker room, sweat streaking his temples, voice hoarse. "They're throwing our own game back at us—predictable as hell! Reed—start hitting backcuts, use their pressure against 'em. Malcolm—attack early, don't let 'em settle in!"

The third quarter sparked with promise—Lincoln surged as Elijah faked off a screen, darted baseline, and caught Malcolm's bounce pass low, floating a soft shot that kissed the glass for 32-27. Then Malcolm swiped Ghost's lazy dribble, sprinting the break, dishing back to Elijah trailing behind, who stepped into a three, swish, 32-30, the gym quaking with red-clad roars. But Ghost clapped back, catching on the wing, dribbling low with his right, hesitating to freeze Malcolm, then crossing him with a filthy move, stepping back from twenty feet, net, 35-30—"That's my house, clowns!" he barked, voice cutting through the noise—then stripped Elijah's next catch clean, dribbling fast downcourt, soaring for a dunk, 37-30. Brick sealed the run, slamming a putback off a missed three, the rim shuddering under his weight, 39-30—the surge snuffed out.

The fourth quarter turned desperate—Malcolm worked to get Elijah an open look, dribbling twice right, firing a crisp pass—Elijah rose, but the shot clanked off the rim, Ghost taunting loud, "Where's that Westside magic, huh?" Derrick drove inside, only to get swatted by Brick's massive paw, the ball careening out of bounds. Ghost kept cooking, pulling a step-back three over Jamal's outstretched arms, "Sleep tight, short stack!" ringing in Elijah's ears as the score stretched to 54-43 with two minutes left. Elijah fought back, catching off a screen at the top, pump-faking to send Ghost soaring, rising as Ghost recovered to smack his arm—whistle blew, shot dropped, a four-point play, 54-47—Martha screamed, "Light 'em up!" from the stands, her voice a beacon in the chaos—but it was too late. Ghost slowed the pace, ran the clock, sank his free throws with a smirk, and when the final buzzer wailed, it was 54-47, Englewood strutting off victorious, Lincoln's gym falling into a stunned hush.

In the locker room, Elijah slumped on the bench, towel draped over his head, the air heavy with the stink of defeat and damp jerseys. His stats weren't terrible—14 points on 4-of-11 shooting, 1-of-2 from three, 1-of-1 at the line, 3 assists, 3 turnovers—but they weren't enough. Coach's hand landed heavy on his shoulder, voice gruff but steady. "They prepped for you, Reed—next time, you prep for them."

The system chimed softly in his mind: VC earned—50 for minutes, 140 for points (14 x 10), 60 for assists (3 x 20), 0 for the loss—totaling 250 VC, bringing his balance to 985. Deadeye sat 15 VC away, teasingly close, while a new badge flickered in his thoughts: Clutch Performer, boosting late-game poise, whispering potential from that four-point play.