Nine years later.
The ball whispered against the asphalt, steady and sharp in the gray quiet before dawn. Each bounce marked the beat of his breathing. Crossover. Between the legs. Behind the back. Again. Faster.
Lucifer moved like the court was an extension of his body. No longer the five-year-old tripping over his own feet—now every motion was clean, deliberate. His shoulders rolled with balance, his core stayed tight, and the ball never left his control.
He'd grown into his frame—five-eight and lean, built from years of repetition. Calloused palms, quick wrists, and forearms etched from constant motion. His dreads swung with each pivot, damp with sweat, brushing his jaw when he shifted direction.
He exploded left, pulled back right, and rose at the arc. Knees bent, hips drove, wrist snapped.
The ball spun up and out, cutting through the cool air.
Swish.
No rim. No sound but net.
He caught the rebound, stepped back behind the line, and went again. Same motion, same rhythm, same quiet.
After the hundredth shot dropped through, he let the ball rest against his hip.
"That's one hundred," he said to no one.
The court had been his church for nine years. Every morning before school, every evening after training with Nia. While other kids played in leagues, collected trophies, built reputations, he'd been here, alone, building something else. Foundation. Mastery. The kind of skill that didn't need validation from eighth-grade championships or youth league MVPs.
Time to see if it was worth it.
He packed his gear—two pairs of shoes worn smooth from use, a ball that had molded to his grip—and took one last look at the court. Tomorrow he'd be somewhere else. Tomorrow, finally, the games would begin.
The house felt cavernous without his family's noise. A note sat on the marble counter: Business in Milan. Be good. —Mom. Which probably meant they were in Prague, or Bangkok, or wherever people with too much money went to make more of it. He'd stopped asking years ago.
His bed barely had time to register his weight before the door burst open.
"Wake up, Lucifer! We have to decide what school we are going to!"
Daphne landed on his stomach with the accuracy of nine years' practice, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh that probably registered on seismographs.
"My alarm," he groaned, pulling a pillow over his face, "goes off at ten."
She yanked it away. "The early bird gets the worm."
"The early bird gets eaten by the earlier cat."
"That's not how the saying goes."
"It is now."
She bounced again, deliberately. "Mom says we can go to the same school. Isn't that great?"
He looked at her through one eye. Fourteen had been kind to Daphne in ways that made certain things more complicated. The pigtails were gone, replaced by braids that framed a face that had found its angles. Still had that smile though, the one that suggested she knew things you didn't.
"Fantastic."
Nine years and she still can't detect sarcasm.
The first school had marble floors and kids who walked like they were being filmed for a documentary about their own importance. One boy introduced himself by listing his father's net worth. Lucifer was out the door before the tour guide finished explaining the "leadership cultivation program."
The second school might have worked until a pack of seniors tracked Daphne's movement across the courtyard like hyenas studying a gazelle. Nia's expression went from professional to protective in about two seconds. They were in the car before the bell rang.
"Last option," Lucifer said as they pulled up to East View Saints. "If this doesn't work, I'm homeschooling myself."
The building sprawled rather than towered, comfortable in its space like it had nothing to prove. Kids moved through the hallways without that performative awareness he'd seen at the other schools. Normal. Functional. Good.
Then he heard it—the squeak of shoes on hardwood, the percussion of ball on floor, voices calling plays.
The gym doors were propped open, spilling light and sound into the corridor. He moved toward it without conscious thought, Daphne and Nia trailing behind.
Inside, ten players flowed through a scrimmage with the kind of controlled chaos that only looked easy if you didn't understand what you were watching. The point guard—number 3—called the play with hand signals and voice, a conductor managing his orchestra.
"Horns! Horns!"
Two bigs set high screens. The shooting guard curled off one, caught the pass in rhythm, but the defense recovered fast. Ball swung to the corner. The forward pump-faked, drove baseline, drew help, then kicked to the opposite wing where number 7 was already squared up.
The shot rattled home.
Good rotation. Weak side defender was late though. And the center telegraphs his screens—drops his shoulder before contact every time.
Each possession revealed more. Number 3 favored his right on drives. Number 11 had a hitch in his shot when rushed. Number 5 could jump out of the gym but had stone hands—every third pass bounced off his fingers.
"You're doing the thing," Daphne said softly.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you dissect everyone like a frog in biology."
He didn't respond, but something must have shown on his face because she smiled that particular smile she saved for when she understood something about him that he hadn't said.
"So are we going to this school?"
"Yes."
The scrimmage ended with coaches' whistles and players grabbing water. One of them, older than the others by bearing if not years, noticed their presence and approached.
"This is a closed practice." The coach's voice carried authority without aggression. "If you have family playing, please wait outside."
"We're prospective students," Daphne chirped. "Touring schools."
The coach's attention shifted to Lucifer, cataloging height, build, the way he stood. "You play?"
A nod.
"Hey coach, these your kids?" The captain had followed, all easy confidence and practiced charm. Tall, maybe six-three, with the kind of shoulders that suggested hours in the weight room.
"Middle schoolers, Elijah. Shopping for schools."
Elijah's grin widened. "You play basketball?"
Another nod.
"How about a one-on-one? You win, you get a guaranteed spot. You lose…" He shrugged. "You just miss the chance to skip tryouts."
Lucifer looked at the coach, who seemed amused by his captain's recruitment strategy. "Why not?"
"Sure."
"Good. I'm Elijah. Team captain." He gestured to his teammates. "You can play me or pick someone else."
"I'll play you. Then whoever after."
Elijah's eyebrows rose. "Confident. I like that. We made nationals last year."
"You didn't make it past the first round."
The gym went quiet. Even the ball someone had been dribbling stopped its rhythm.
"Be nice, Lucifer," Daphne said, but there was laughter hidden in her voice.
"Yeah, listen to your girlfriend."
"She's not my girlfriend."
He kept walking toward the court, didn't see the way Daphne's smile flickered and died before rebuilding itself.
"Oh?" Elijah's voice carried new interest. "Then I can introduce her to my brother. He's a year above you guys."
Lucifer stopped. Turned. Met Elijah's eyes with the kind of focus that usually preceded violence in nature documentaries.
"What did you just say?"
"Since you're not dating, maybe she'd be interested. He's been looking for—"
"Let's play."
Elijah's grin shifted, sharpened. He'd found a button and knew it.
The team formed a loose circle around center court. Someone tossed Lucifer a ball. It settled into his hands like a promise about to be kept.
That one comment was the reason Elijah would either win or lose.