Chapter 5 – Enemies in the Shadows

The streetlights flickered weakly above Malik as he jogged across 82nd and Lennox, his backpack thumping against his back. The echoes of bouncing basketballs, laughter, and music faded behind him—tonight wasn't about fun. Not anymore. Ever since the attack, the city felt colder. Tighter. Like it was shrinking around him.

He took a side alley, one only people born in that part of Blaze Point knew by heart. Broken fences, trash cans, and a faded graffiti wall that read "Legends Rise Here". Malik touched the wall like a ritual. Like it gave him strength. Then he ducked into the shadows and moved fast.

Coach Briggs had texted him a new location for their midnight meetup. "Private gym. 14th and Weber. Come alone. Lock in."

Malik knew what that meant: no friends, no distractions, and definitely no backup. This wasn't just about practice anymore. Coach was testing him—for more than just skill.

He reached the metal door behind a warehouse and knocked five times. A small hatch slid open. A pair of bloodshot eyes studied him.

"You sure you're ready for this?" the voice grumbled.

Malik didn't flinch. "Open it."

The door creaked open, revealing an underground gym lit by neon red strips running along the walls. A single court in the center. Metal bleachers. Chain nets. It wasn't pretty, but it bled history. You could feel it in the walls. The floorboards were scarred from wars of street kings who rose—and fell—right here.

"Welcome to The Pit," Briggs said, emerging from the shadows.

He wasn't alone.

Five players stood behind him. Bigger. Older. Tatted. And dangerous.

"This is your crucible," Coach said. "No drills. No rules. Just you... and them."

Malik sized them up. One guy cracked his knuckles. Another twirled a toothpick between his lips like he was ready to fight, not hoop.

"Survive this... and you'll earn the map."

Malik's brows pinched. "Map?"

Briggs smirked. "To the League. Blaze Point's underground tournament. Invite-only. One shot to rise or disappear. And you're not even on the waiting list yet."

The air went silent.

"Ball up," Coach growled.

The players spread out. Malik's heart pounded like a drumline. This wasn't a game. It was a hunt.

The tallest player, D-Rock, stepped up first. 6'7", shoulders like cinder blocks, and a sneer that could kill. He launched forward on the inbound, slamming Malik with a shoulder. Malik stumbled but didn't fall.

Not today.

He spun left, crossed over, and stepped back. D-Rock lunged.

Wrong move.

Malik stepped through and boom!—hit the jumper. Net snapped like a whip.

The gym went still.

One of the other players barked. "Lucky shot."

"Try me," Malik said.

They came at him in waves. Each one nastier than the last. Elbows. Shoves. Trash talk that cut like knives. But Malik danced through it—like poetry in chaos. Each drive was sharper. Each fadeaway colder. His shirt clung to his chest, soaked in sweat and adrenaline.

Coach Briggs didn't call fouls. He just watched. Judging.

Then it happened.

As Malik slashed into the paint, a knee collided with his thigh—on purpose. He crashed to the floor, pain surging up his leg. The gym blurred. For a second, he almost blacked out.

"Get up," Briggs barked.

Malik gritted his teeth. His vision cleared. D-Rock stood over him, grinning.

"You out?" D-Rock taunted. "Or you done for good?"

Malik rolled onto his knees, breathing heavy. His leg throbbed, but his pride screamed louder.

He rose.

And he exploded.

Three possessions. Three straight buckets. And on the final one—he dunked.

Not a soft rim grazer.

A thunderous, two-hand, backboard-rattling dunk that silenced every doubter in that gym.

Coach Briggs whistled. "Enough!"

The gym emptied. The players disappeared into the shadows, muttering, their egos bruised.

Briggs handed Malik a black envelope.

"You want in?" he asked.

Malik nodded.

Briggs smirked. "Then study the map. You've got seven days before the first match. And Malik... these ain't city kids anymore. These are killers. Ex-pros. Hustlers. Fighters. You don't just play them—you survive them."

Malik opened the envelope. Inside was a folded map with street names crossed out, locations marked in cryptic codes, and one phrase in bold red ink:

"WIN OR DISAPPEAR."

Back outside, rain had started to fall, but Malik didn't care. The map burned in his pocket like a secret waiting to be unlocked.

But as he crossed into his block, he felt something was off. Too quiet.

Then a voice behind him:

"You should've stayed down, Torres."

He turned fast.

Three masked figures stepped out from the alley. No logos. No faces. Just intent.

Streetlights flickered.

Malik backed up slowly.

This wasn't about basketball.

This was war.