Chapter 10 – Blood on the Court

The warehouse lights buzzed overhead as Malik Torres zipped up his hoodie, his knuckles still sore from the late-night training session. The secret meeting from the night before still echoed in his head — Roman's warning was clear: "You think this is just ball? Nah, kid. This is war in sneakers."

Now he was here — at the edge of Blaze Point's most infamous court: The Cage.

Crowds were already filling in, the kind of crowd that didn't clap politely — they growled, roared, and demanded violence with every possession. Metal fences wrapped the court, graffiti tagging every inch. A single spotlight hung over center court like the eye of a predator.

Malik stood at half-court, his heart beating to the rhythm of the crowd's stomps. Roman's crew, The Irons, had challenged him to a scrimmage. But this wasn't about practice. This was about power.

"They want to break you in front of everybody," said Jinx, who stood beside him, tightening her gloves.

Malik's eyes locked on Roman at the far end, arms crossed, a smirk curling under his scarred cheek. Behind him, The Irons — five monsters in jerseys, each built like a linebacker.

"We ready?" Malik asked, voice calm.

Jinx grinned. "Born ready."

The whistle blew.

The game exploded.

Jinx snatched the tip and launched forward like a bullet. Malik cut across the baseline, shook his man, caught the pass, and hit a fadeaway jumper — net clean.

Cheers erupted — but so did elbows. The Irons played dirty.

The next play, Malik drove the lane and caught a hard shoulder to the ribs. No whistle. Just pain and fire in his chest. He hit the ground, gasping. The crowd didn't boo — they cheered.

Roman chuckled from the sideline. "Welcome to the real League."

Malik stood up slowly. Blood trickled from his mouth. He wiped it with his wrist and spat. "That all you got?"

The Irons smiled. The next possession was war.

Jinx crossed up their point guard so hard his ankle folded, and Malik tossed an alley-oop that brought the roof down — but The Irons weren't just playing to win. They were testing Malik. Every bucket he scored came with a bruise, a shove, a threat whispered in his ear.

"You ain't making it to the finals, rookie."

"You think you matter? You're just fuel for the fire."

But Malik kept scoring.

And they kept fouling.

Halftime came. 21–20. Blaze Point rules: first to 50 wins.

Malik leaned against the fence, water bottle shaking in his hands. Jinx sat beside him, bruised but breathing.

"You good?" she asked.

"Been worse."

"Not sure I have," she laughed, wincing.

Just then, a hooded figure approached. His face hidden in shadows.

Malik tensed.

"You're making noise," the man said. "Roman don't like noise."

"Too bad," Malik replied.

The man tilted his head. "Keep pushing and you'll find out what Blaze Point really is."

He dropped a card at Malik's feet. A black emblem — flaming chain wrapped around a basketball.

Then he vanished into the crowd.

Malik picked it up slowly. The name on it: The Apex Syndicate.

Jinx looked over. "That's the crew above The Irons."

"I thought Roman was top."

Jinx shook her head. "Roman's the gatekeeper. The Syndicate's the throne."

Suddenly, gunshots echoed — not real ones, but the blam-blam of the crowd reacting to an ankle-breaking crossover as one of The Irons dunked over their backup. Score: 28–23.

They were pulling ahead.

Malik's heart was pounding, but not from fear. From fire.

He stepped back on the court.

No more doubts.

No more hesitations.

He weaved through defenders like a shadow, hit two jumpers in a row, and forced a turnover. The Cage lit up with noise. People were starting to chant.

"Tor-res! Tor-res!"

Roman's face darkened.

Then, Roman himself subbed in.

"Wait… he's playing?" Jinx gasped.

"League rule," a voice in the crowd muttered. "You call the challenge, you finish it."

Roman stepped on the court — black armband tight, tattoos crawling down his arm like war paint.

The next ten minutes? A blur.

Roman was a beast. Malik had never seen anyone move like that — he didn't play basketball, he commanded it. Every step was power. Every pass a dagger. And he wasn't there to win — he was there to break Malik.

At 46–47, Roman body-checked Malik mid-drive. Malik hit the ground hard, shoulder screaming. The ball rolled out of bounds.

"No foul?" Malik barked at the ref.

The ref just shrugged. "Welcome to Blaze Point."

Roman stood over him. "Still think you belong here?"

Malik looked up, fury burning behind his eyes. He stood slowly.

"Not only do I belong," Malik said, voice steady. "I'm taking this league."

The crowd erupted.

Jinx inbounded.

Malik faked right, spun left — Roman bit.

Open lane.

He rose.

Roman recovered — fast — and jumped.

Both in the air.

Midair collision.

BOOM.

The entire cage went silent.

Malik's body twisted as he slammed the ball through the hoop, absorbing the contact, landing hard on one knee.

49–49.

One more point.

Sweat stung his eyes.

Roman's lip bled.

"You won't make the last shot," Roman growled.

"We'll see."

Final possession. Malik dribbled up slowly.

Everyone stood.

Even the ref backed away.

Malik crossed. Roman mirrored.

Step-back. Roman followed.

Then — Jinx cut behind Roman, perfect timing.

Fake pass.

Roman twitched.

Malik elevated.

Time slowed.

Shot arc perfect.

Silence.

Then — net.

50–49.

Malik fell to the floor, chest heaving.

The Cage exploded.

People rushed the court. Shouts, cheers, chaos.

But Malik's eyes were locked on Roman — who didn't look angry.

He looked impressed.

He approached Malik, extended a hand.

"Guess you're not just noise."

Malik shook it. "Told you."

But Roman leaned in. "They saw this. The Syndicate's coming. Hope you're ready for a war."