Manila — July 2029
The night was humming.
Basslines and cicadas. Diesel smoke and sweat.
Under the bridge, floodlights burned through the haze —
a half-court glowing like a stage carved out of noise and concrete.
The air smelled of oil and rain.
Coins clinked, shoes scraped,
and people yelled like the game could save them from something — or at least cover lunch.
It wasn't official.
No refs. No mercy.
Just another 3-on-3 for cash, pride, and oxygen.
And in the middle of it all — Riki Dela Peña.
Eighteen. Five-seven.
Grin loud, heart louder.
A human mixtape with too much confidence and not enough brakes.
He dribbled like he was dancing with the pavement — snap, snap, snap —
spinning past defenders, bouncing off invisible walls, moving like chaos had rhythm.
A magician with calloused hands and a smile that spelled trouble in lowercase.
"This ain't PBA, this is therapy!"
Someone shouted. Someone else tossed a coin.
Riki winked at the fishball vendor mid-crossover.
"Keep it hot, kuya. I'll be right back."
A step to the left, spin to the right, behind-the-back bounce —
a float shot off the glass. Net kissed.
The crowd erupted like the bridge itself was alive in rhythm.
Then he saw him.
Tall. Seven-one. Seventeen.
A hoodie draped like a curtain, groceries in one hand, the other shoved in his pocket.
Not here to play. Not here for fun. Basketball was childish, a noise he'd long left behind.
Riki spotted him instantly.
"Yo, skyscraper! You lost or something?"
Teo looked up, flat.
"Just passing through."
Riki laughed, bouncing the ball.
"Passing through here? What, you came to watch badminton?"
The crowd snickered. Someone muttered: "Who's the giant?"
Someone else tilted their phone to record.
"Basketball," Teo said flatly.
"It's just kids playing with a ball."
Silence — well, relative silence. Bassline thumped. Even the frying fishballs popped slower.
Riki tilted the ball on his finger, spinning it like a coin.
"C'mon, skyscraper. We'll just make it an exhibition. No money, no bets. Chill."
Riki's teammate shook his head.
"No. Leave him be, Riki. He doesn't wanna play."
Riki's grin widened, bouncing closer.
"Come on, skyscraper. You gonna waste all that height just watching from the sidelines?"
Teo crossed his arms, voice tight.
"If you keep bothering me. I'll show you — that Basketball. Is just a kid's game."
Riki laughed, a teasing, rolling laugh.
"Perfect! Then we'll show you it's not that simple."
The 3-on-3 Game Begins
Someone tossed Teo cracked sneakers and a faded jersey — STAY BROKE.
He slipped them on like an awkward shadow.
Riki bounced the ball between his legs.
"Alright, skyscraper. Don't blink."
The first pass came to Teo.
He froze. Ball too small in his hands.
First dribble clattered off his knee. The crowd chuckled.
Riki grinned. "It's okay, big guy. Take your time."
Teo's pride flared. He wasn't here for fun — he was here to prove Riki wrong.
He remembered watching his father's smooth step-backs, pump fakes, and sky-high layups.
He had never practiced, but muscle memory lingered somewhere in the long limbs.
He dribbled low, two long strides forward. Step, step.
He stopped, dribbled again, pivoted, and shifted weight carefully — step only after the dribble.
A cautious shoulder fake — not much, just a hint — enough to slow a defender.
He rose for a layup. The ball tipped the backboard on the way up, clanging off the rim.
Not clean, not elegant, but a real, plausible move.
The crowd chuckled, half at the sound, half at the awkward timing.
Teo landed, arms heavy, jaw tight. Pride wounded, fire sparked.
Another attempt:
He dribbled again, eyes on the rim, hands huge on the ball.
Two dribbles, step, step — slow, controlled.
A hesitant crossover — subtle, barely noticeable —
enough to shift past a smaller defender who misread the timing.
Step in for a hook shot near the elbow. Ball rattled the rim again. Missed, but controlled.
He landed, torso twisting awkwardly, trying to maintain balance.
Riki timed it perfectly. Teo had just gone up for the hook shot, leaving his back exposed. Riki leapt, ball in his right hand, and planted his left firmly on Teo's upper back for just enough lift to clear the rim. Momentum carried him in a perfect arc, one-handed slam through the hoop. Phones lifted. Coins bounced. The crowd erupted.
Teo staggered, chest heaving, blinking at the audacity of the small, fearless point guard.
Riki spun the ball on his finger, grinning. "Height isn't everything," he laughed.
Teo's Internal Conflict
Teo bent, dribbled again. Step, pivot, cautious move forward.
He hated the attention. He hated looking clumsy.
He hated basketball. And yet…
Something tugged. The court smelled like childhood dreams he'd buried.
The squeak of shoes, slap of ball, laughter of crowd —
it pulled at something buried.
His father's jumps, the pump fakes on TV, the long-limbed reach — flashes of technique he'd never refined but could imitate.
Riki clapped, bouncing past him.
"That's it! Feel it! Don't think, just move!"
Teo shook his head, voice quiet, muttering to himself:
"It's just a kids' game…"
And yet, for one heartbeat, he floated.
One dribble, one cautious pivot, one awkward hook — he forgot everything outside the court.
Not for glory. Not for Riki.
Just… to exist differently, if only for a moment.
The crowd cheered. Riki laughed. And Teo? He just… moved.
The night hummed.
Basslines and cicadas. Diesel smoke and sweat.
Coins clinked. Sneakers squeaked.
And somewhere in that chaos,
something started moving inside Teo.
Somewhere under the bridge, the stage was set for tomorrow.
End of Chapter 1