The sky broke open like a god tearing a curtain. Rain fell in flat sheets, a white noise that swallowed the city, hammered the rooftop court, and turned the painted lines into slick rivers. Lightning serrated the clouds, then carved the empty air into silver veins each flash a heartbeat, each thunder a drum. Under that furious sky, five silhouettes moved with a grace that seemed to make the storm hush for a second, as if even the weather stopped to watch.
"Everyone, listen."
Jalen "Flash" Carter's voice cut through the roar—young, but the command was iron. He stood at midcourt, drenched, the wet cotton of his jersey clinging to his muscles. At fifteen, he carried himself like a monarch who had never known a crown but had forged one from every sprint, every study, every defeat. The rain painted his white-blond hair silver; his eyes were dark coals, calm under the storm.
