"Oh—before I forget," Dranred said, reaching into his pocket.
He crouched down and pulled out a baseball—the same one he'd given Rosette years ago, the one from their championship game. She had left it behind in their old house the night of the tragedy. When he returned there with the police, he found it lying on the stairs.
He never got the chance to return it to her—until now.
"You still remember this, right?" he said softly, placing the ball in her small hands.
Rosette's face lit up with recognition. "I thought I lost it! Thank you." She traced her fingers over the smooth surface, smiling through the faint tremble of her lips. "Promise me something—when you win your first championship, I'll still get the first autograph?"
"Of course," Dranred said with a smile. "You'll always get my first autograph." He reached forward and playfully pinched her nose.
"Can I hug you?" she asked.
"Of course you can."
She wrapped her arms around him, and he held her tightly—memorizing the weight of her small frame. "Take care of yourself, okay? And don't give James or Estelle a hard time."
"I'll try not to," Rosette said with a soft laugh. "And you have to take care too."
"Always."
"Rosette, let's go!" James's impatient voice cut through the moment as he opened the van door. "Or should we just leave you here?"
Their aunt called out next, "Come on, dear." She took Rosette's hand gently.
"Bye-bye, Red!" Rosette said, waving toward his voice as her aunt guided her to the van.
Dranred stood, his chest tightening as he turned to Estelle.
"You're leaving," he said quietly. "Can we still see each other? Or maybe I can call—"
"Let's break up."
The words stopped him cold.
"What?" he whispered.
"I said I want to end this," Estelle said, her voice steady but her eyes trembling. "I can't be with someone whose family destroyed mine. I can't love the grandson of a murderer."
"Estelle, you know that's not—" he reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.
"Don't defend him," she said sharply. "Goodbye, Dranred. Let's never see each other again."
She turned and walked away without looking back. Dranred stood frozen, watching as the van door closed and the engine started. The sound of it pulling away left a hollow echo in his chest.
He never even got the chance to tell James that he joined basketball—not to compete, but to carry the dream his friend could no longer chase. He had turned down a Major League offer, believing this would somehow make up for what his grandfather had done.
But James would never understand.
That day at the hospital was the last time Dranred ever saw them. After they moved to the province with their aunt and uncle, he lost all contact. He tried calling, searching, even visiting, but every lead vanished into silence.
Years passed.
He kept playing basketball—driven by the same dream that had once belonged to James. He played with the hope that someday, somehow, the game that tore them apart might also bring them back together.
The arena lights burned brighter than he remembered.
Crowds roared. Cameras flashed. The sound of sneakers squeaking on polished wood echoed like thunder in his chest.
Dranred stood at center court, the weight of the jersey heavy on his back. His name stitched across it meant nothing to him—it was the name of a sinner's bloodline. The crowd cheered for a rising star, but he wasn't here to be one.
He was here to play the game James couldn't.
Every time he dribbled the ball, he remembered the hospital room—the cast on James's legs, the fury in his voice, the look that said traitor. He remembered Rosette's blind eyes, searching for light that would never return. He remembered Estelle's trembling hand pulling away from his.
Those memories followed him onto every court, every match, every championship.
He played not for himself, but as payment—a debt no victory could ever erase.
Every shot, every point, every sweat that touched the floor was his silent apology to the family his own had destroyed.
When the referee blew the whistle, the game began, and with it, the ghosts returned.
He moved with precision and fire, the same intensity James once had. But deep down, he knew—no matter how high he jumped or how many games he won—he wasn't chasing trophies.
He was chasing forgiveness that might never come.
And as the crowd erupted with his name, Dranred whispered to himself,
"This isn't my game. It's his."
Every post-game interview was the same.
The microphones would crowd around him, flashes bursting in his face, voices overlapping—
"Dranred, what's your secret?"
"How do you stay so consistent under pressure?"
"What keeps you motivated to win every single game?"
And every time, he would smile faintly, eyes distant, and answer in the same calm voice:
"Every game I play… every win I get… is for a friend."
That was all he ever said.
No name. No story. No explanation.
Reporters speculated endlessly.
Some said it was for a childhood friend who passed away. Others believed it was for a rival, or a teammate who inspired him. Fans started calling the mysterious person "The Phantom Friend."
But Dranred never corrected them.
Because how could he explain that the friend he played for was the same one who had once called him a traitor?
How could he tell the world that his greatest victories were built on the ruins of someone else's dream? Before every game, he followed a quiet ritual.
He would wrap his wrist with white tape, and before he tied it off, he'd write one word—"J." He never told anyone what it meant.
Sometimes, before stepping onto the court, he would take a small worn baseball from his locker—the one Rosette had once held—and place it gently inside, as if it were a guardian of his guilt.
Every cheer from the crowd echoed hollow in his ears, because he knew none of this belonged to him. The spotlight, the trophies, the fame—they all felt borrowed. He was merely keeping them safe until the day James could stand and take them back. When the final buzzer sounded, and victory was his again, he would look up into the stands—not at the fans, not at the cameras—but somewhere beyond the lights, as if searching for the ghost of a promise.
"This one's for you, my friend," he'd whisper.
And though the world celebrated his triumphs, Dranred knew that each win was never truly his. It was just another payment toward a debt that could never be repaid.