Chapter 8: Trial by Fire

The rain didn't stop all night.

It hammered the city like a war drum, bouncing off cracked pavement, trickling into the alleys of Eastview like whispers of trouble. Malik Torres stood on the edge of an abandoned train yard, the cold bite of the wind slashing at his face. His hoodie clung to his soaked skin, heavy like the weight in his chest.

He glanced down at the note in his hand—the one delivered by the masked figure after the Pit fight. Just a time. A place. No name. No instructions.

"This is your gate."

Coach Briggs' voice echoed in his head. "If you want in, there's no warm-up. No half-steps. It's jump or drown."

A low whistle snapped Malik out of his thoughts.

Across the yard, lights flickered to life beneath a rusted warehouse awning. A tall man in a bomber jacket and neon sneakers emerged from the shadows. Behind him, two more figures leaned against a steel door, arms crossed, eyes locked on Malik like snipers.

"You Malik?" the man called out.

Malik nodded once.

The man stepped forward and motioned to the door. "Trial game. No name, no crowd. Just fire."

Malik hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to back off. But behind that fear… was a hunger.

He stepped forward into the warehouse.

The inside felt like something out of a war zone—walls covered in graffiti, half-shattered windows, and a chain-link fence surrounding a concrete court bathed in harsh white floodlights. No scoreboard. No benches. Just cracked pavement, buckets, and silence.

Six players stood waiting on the court. Tall. Built. Scars across their knuckles. Not one smiled.

The man in the bomber jacket turned to Malik. "We call this The Furnace. One possession. One shot. Make it count."

Malik frowned. "That's it?"

The man shrugged. "That's everything. You'll be guarding Ghost. He's the one with the silver mask."

Ghost stepped forward. He didn't say a word. Just spun the ball on one finger, then slapped it into Malik's chest.

The tension was molten.

Malik dribbled once, then twice. The court felt like it tilted beneath him. Ghost dropped into a stance, arms spread, eyes unreadable behind the silver visor.

Malik juked left—Ghost didn't move.

He pulled back right—Ghost mirrored him perfectly.

A bead of sweat traced down Malik's temple. He exploded forward, driving hard to the right, but Ghost anticipated it, sliding with freakish speed.

Malik spun—desperation in his chest—faked a stepback, and launched into a quick-release fadeaway.

The ball arced high—spinning in slow motion—

CLANG!

Back iron. Ghost snatched the rebound mid-air like it was planned.

The room stayed silent.

The man in the bomber jacket rubbed his jaw. "You failed."

Malik froze.

Ghost dropped the ball at Malik's feet, then turned his back without a word.

The bomber-jacket guy waved a hand toward the exit. "There's no second chances here. Only scars."

But Malik didn't move. His heart pounded like thunder. "Let me run it back," he said.

The man smirked. "What part of 'trial' didn't you understand?"

"I wasn't warmed up."

"Then go warm up at your high school gym."

Laughter echoed from the sidelines. A couple players shook their heads, walking off.

But Ghost stopped. His voice—raspy, robotic—cut through the air. "One more. If he scores, he stays."

All eyes turned.

The man raised a brow. "You serious?"

Ghost didn't answer. Just tossed the ball back to Malik.

The court fell dead silent again.

Malik bounced the ball, his hands shaking. This wasn't just a shot—it was survival. Legacy. If he missed, his name would vanish from the underground before it was ever written.

He studied Ghost's stance. This time, he didn't rush. He slowed down… listened to the rhythm in his own chest… the rhythm Coach Briggs drilled into his bones.

He stepped in slowly, then crossed hard left—Ghost followed.

He jabbed right—Ghost leaned.

And that's when Malik froze.

Not literally—he used a hesitation move so sharp it cracked Ghost's balance. Malik exploded past him, two steps, then rose into the air.

BOOM.

A one-handed slam.

No finesse. Just rage and steel.

The court roared alive with cheers and curses.

The man in the bomber jacket rubbed his temples. "Well, damn."

Ghost picked himself off the court, staring at Malik through the visor.

"You got fire," he said quietly. "But the Blaze eats fire if it ain't controlled."

Outside, the storm had slowed to a drizzle. Malik walked with a limp and bleeding elbow, but he held his head high.

Ghost caught up to him near the street.

"You ain't ready," he said.

Malik turned. "I just dunked on you."

"That wasn't a game. That was bait." He tossed Malik a folded piece of paper. "Blaze Point hosts trials next week. The real ones. Show up if you still think you got the guts."

"What happens if I win those?"

Ghost paused.

"You stop playing to survive," he said, "and start surviving to play."

Then he vanished into the shadows.

Later That Night…

Malik returned to his apartment, knees aching, shirt torn, hands bruised. His mom was already asleep. The TV flickered softly in the background—a rerun of a 90s Knicks game.

He dropped onto his mattress, but the weight in his chest kept him from resting.

He pulled out the paper Ghost had given him.

One word was printed in bold red letters:

"EXPOSURE."

Beneath it was an address and a date.

July 1st. Blaze Point Trials. Midnight.

His phone buzzed beside him.

[Unknown Number]

"You've been marked. No turning back."