The city had been breathing water for hours.
Rain streaked the streets, pooling in potholes, tapping on tin roofs like impatient fingers.
Under the bridge, the sound was distant—softened to a steady percussion overhead. Floodlights hummed against dry concrete, throwing pale reflections off the damp street beyond. Here, the air smelled of metal and warmth—a mix of sweat, dust, and leftover smoke from a nearby stall.
Teo stood at the edge of the court, hood up, shoulders tense.
In his hand, a small envelope of hospital bills shook slightly with each heartbeat. His father's name was on the forms—suspended in a coma halfway across the world, hope fragile, doctors uncertain.
He remembered the night before.
"Son," his father's voice had been weak but clear. "I see it. I see you… happier these days. Are you… playing basketball?"
It had hit Teo harder than any loss on the court.
For years, his father hadn't smiled like that.
Then they'd put him under, hoping for a miracle that needed more than courage—it needed money.
A shout broke through the echoing drip of rain outside.
"Tower boy! You coming or what?"
Riki. Mud-splattered from the ride in, hair messy, grin unwavering.
He had brought company—two neighborhood players, both quick on their feet and shaking off rain at the edge of the court.
"Meet the lineup," Riki said. "Temporary imports."
One was short and wiry, quick as a shadow. The other broad-shouldered, quiet, and unpredictable. Streetball regulars—not names, just faces that showed up for the game.
Bong, Riki's friend, slipped into position beside him, smirking. "Still raining, huh? Good. The roof's got rhythm now."
Riki bounced the ball once, then glanced at Teo. "Alright, skyscraper. Warm-up first."
The next few minutes were simple drills—dribbles, pivots, layups. Each sound echoed crisp and clean in the dry space beneath the bridge. Outside, rain poured like static; inside, only sneakers and breath filled the air.
Every step carried the weight of old lessons. Every touch felt like chasing a ghost of his father's motion.
On the sidelines, a tall figure leaned against a pillar—hood up, silent.
Drei Reyes.
He'd shown up once before for a quick one-on-one with Riki, then vanished. Tonight he wasn't here to play—not yet—just to watch.
When the warm-up ended, Riki clapped. "3-on-3. Let's move."
The sound of rain outside became part of the rhythm—a muffled metronome above their heads. Teo dribbled, hesitated, then pushed forward—step, pivot, lift. A soft layup. Rim. Drop.
Small success. Real, heavy.
The rhythm built—sneakers squeaking, shouts rebounding off concrete, echoes layering with the hiss of distant rain. The game wasn't about score—it was about motion.
Drei watched from the edge—every fake, every drive, every stumble. Something in the way Riki adjusted, or how Teo began to find timing, drew his eyes.
The game blurred.
Riki called out cuts like music, Bong teased through passes, and Teo started moving like he belonged there.
When he rose for a dunk, it wasn't planned; it was instinct.
The ball thundered off the backboard, sending a dry, sharp echo through the space.
They froze—even Riki mid-laugh, Bong mid-joke.
Then chaos returned—cheers, shouts, palms slapping in rhythm.
Teo bent, chest heaving, breath sharp in the cool air.
The spark was back.
Not for glory, not for pride—but for something he couldn't name yet.
Riki clapped him on the back. "See? Told you it's not just a kid's game."
Teo looked up, eyes tracing the hoop, lights glaring through thin mist.
Something had awakened.
Something unstoppable.
The night hummed—
Basslines of rain above and sneakers below.
Coins of light shimmered on the concrete.
And somewhere in that rhythm, under the bridge, something real began to form.
End of Chapter 4 — "Rain and rhythm"