Prologue
Iustitia
It was 9:03. At 9:47, the same legs that carried John across the court would be bleeding out in the middle of a dark road.
“Four in front of him, one draped over his back! The window is closing!” “Wait—he’s weaving—he steps back—HE LAUNCHES IT—”
The buzzer screamed.
For a fraction of a second, the arena held its breath. Then, the world tore open.
“—AND IT’S IN! JOHN SAKO AT THE HORN! MAPPERVILLE TAKES THE WORLD ONE CHAMPIONSHIP!” “83–81! They say diamonds shine brightest under pressure, Stevie, and eighteen-year-old John Sako just carved his name into history!”
John exhaled. 83–81. The scoreboard glared down, looking almost relieved that the tension was over. Suddenly, jerseys swallowed him. Sweat, deodorant, and the smell of rubber flooded his senses. He shouted but only felt the vibration in the back of his throat.
The roar faded into a muffled hum behind steel doors. John slumped against the outer wall of the stadium, the cool night air stinging his damp skin. He sat in the dirt, laughing breathlessly.
Fans streamed past. Some cheered; others spat curses. It didn’t matter. Tonight, he wasn’t part of the team. He was the team.
He spotted Atick across the lot and pushed himself up. Every muscle protested, but he ran anyway. He shoved through the crowd—and slammed into a wall of a person.
John looked up, a sneer ready. Then he froze. It was the player he’d just shot over. But John didn’t see a rival; he saw a mirror of Lucas—the same hollow eyes, the same tired look.
The boy’s jaw tightened. He extended a trembling hand. “Good game, man.”
John looked at the hand. He thought of the whispers he’d aimed at Lucas in the halls. He thought of apologizing.
Lucas was dead because of him afterall.
Instead, he flicked his wrist, brushing his own hair aside. “We’ll shake when you get on my level.”
John laughed and walked past. “AYY, ATICK!”
Atick was leaning against the car, hands in his pockets. “Took you long enough.”
“I won, Atick. I won it for us.”
“Relax, Mr. Fairest of Them All,” Atick muttered, pulling the car onto the road. “You didn’t do it alone.”
“Let me have this,” John said,leaning against the car window. “Utuks United will be calling by morning. I’m finally done with the Old Man and his lectures about how basketball is ‘too risky.’”
“Being weak is risky,” John added, staring at the dark forest closing in around the road. Usually, the trees felt like something to conquer.
Tonight, they felt like they were staring back.
Waiting.
John’s phone buzzed. He stiffened. The Old Man never called.
“Yello?”
A ragged cough crackled through the speaker. “Good work… kid.”
The line went dead. John stared at the screen. He had finally gotten the praise he craved, so why did his stomach feel like it was filled with lead?
Silence thickened.
CRACK.
The car lurched. The shriek of metal on pavement screamed through the cabin.
“Spike strip?” Atick breathed, his voice tight.
John stepped out into the biting cold. The forest was too quiet—the kind of quiet that listens. It’s just the trees, he told himself. He walked to the trunk, his hands shaking as he reached for the latch.
The trunk popped.
The night exploded.
A thunder-crack split the air. White light blinded him. John hit the ground before he even felt the impact. Pain arrived a heartbeat later—a searing, hot bloom in his leg that soaked instantly into his jersey.
“You—you made me do this,” a voice sobbed.
John blinked. It was Lucas’s brother. He was holding a gun, his face contorted in a mask of grief and terror. “You wouldn’t stop! YOU COULDN’T EVEN LOOK AT WHAT YOU MADE!”
The boy dropped the gun and collapsed, wailing. Atick rushed into view, his knuckles smeared red, keys clutched like a dagger. “JOHN! Stay with me!”
“I’m… fine,” John whispered. He tried to move his leg. Nothing. He looked at the stars—the same stars he’d seen from the stadium dirt.
The hair flick. The hallway laughter. The ego. It all felt so small now.
“Justice,” John murmured.
“What? John, don’t—”
He didn’t feel like a champion. He didn’t feel like a Sako. He just felt like a boy who had run out of time.
“It does me justice,” John smiled.
And the scoreboard hit zero.
