The school day was a fog.
Kian was a ghost in his own life. He moved through the crowded, loud hallways of Crestwood Middle, but he was insulated, separated by a thick, heavy layer of shame. He was physically present, but his mind was elsewhere. It was in his room, staring at the drawing of Milo's shattered expression. It was at the quarry, watching himself ride away.
He sat in the back of his classes. He heard the teachers' voices as a distant, meaningless hum.
At lunch, Silas and Ren found him at their usual table.
"Hey," Silas said, his voice tentative. He was holding a tray, not a joke. The "contract" was in full effect, but the terms had clearly changed. The old, easy silence was gone, replaced by this new, careful one.
Kian just nodded, his gaze fixed on the plastic fork in his hand.
"We're… uh… we're hitting the comic shop after school," Silas offered, trying to build a bridge back to normalcy. "New Monstress is out."
Kian shook his head. "Can't."
Ren, who had been watching, just pushed his glasses up. "Are you… unwell, Kian? Your… your vitals seem… low."
"I'm fine," Kian said, his voice flat. He wasn't fine. He was… hollow. He was a building that had been gutted, waiting for demolition.
He was waiting for the final bell.
When it finally rang, the sound was a starter's pistol. Kian was out of his chair, his bag on his shoulder. He didn't wait for Silas and Ren. He didn't walk with them. He just… left.
He walked out the front doors of the school. He didn't turn right, toward the bus stop.
He turned left. Toward the quarry.
He didn't bike. He didn't ride the bus. He walked. The three-mile trek was his penance. He was walking to his execution, or his… his confession.
With every step, the guilt became more focused. He was replaying the scene. His brother's shocked face. Milo's joyful run. His own, cold, dead words: I've never seen him before in my life.
He had seen that look before. He had seen it in the mirror when he was ten.
He... he doesn't know us?
His father's abandonment had been a… a departure. Kian's denial… that had been an assassination. He had killed that kid's hope, right in front of him.
It's killing you. That's how I know you're not him.
Leo's words. The only thing that had kept him from completely self-destructing. Guilt wasn't a weakness. It was… proof. Proof that he was, at his core, not his father.
But proof wasn't enough. He had to… fix it.
He smelled the rust and old rain of the quarry before he saw it. He walked up the slight embankment, his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest.
He was terrified they wouldn't be there. He was more terrified that they would be.
They were there.
His heart sank. He had been hoping, in the darkest, most cowardly part of his mind, that they'd be gone. That he'd be… spared.
But they were there.
They weren't playing. They were just… sitting. All six of them, huddled on the bottom row of the concrete bleachers, a small, silent… monument… to his betrayal.
Their lumpy, orange ball was on the court, ten feet away, abandoned.
They looked… lost.
Kian stood there for a long, silent moment. They hadn't seen him.
He took a step. His sneaker crunched on the gravel.
Milo's head snapped up.
His face… it wasn't sad. It wasn't betrayed. It was… hard. His eyes, which had once held only hero-worship, were now cold. And… old.
When Milo saw him, he… he flinched.
Ana, seeing Milo flinch, peeked around him. When she saw Kian, she just… hid. She buried her face in the knees of the kid next to her.
Kian stopped.
The flinch. Ana's… hiding.
It was… it was worse than Leo's anger. It was worse than his grandfather's disappointment. It was… deserved.
"What… what do you want?" Milo asked. His voice wasn't a kid's voice. It was… brittle. He had stood up, putting himself in front of the other, smaller kids. He was… protecting them.
From him.
Kian had no words. An apology… "I'm sorry"… what was that? It was… it was air. It was useless.
He just… walked.
He walked past Milo, past the terrified children on the bleachers. He kept his eyes forward. He walked onto the cracked asphalt.
He walked to the abandoned ball.
He crouched. He picked it up.
He hated the feel of it. It felt… heavy. It felt like an accusation.
He stood, holding the lumpy, cheap ball in his hands. He turned.
The kids were all watching him, their fear and anger a tangible, physical wall.
"Go… away!" Milo shouted. His voice cracked, but he held his ground. "We… we hate you!"
Kian stood there. He absorbed the words. He deserved them. He deserved… more.
"I know," Kian said. His voice was rough. He hadn't used it in hours.
He looked at Milo. He looked at… Milo. Not… not the idea of him. He looked at… the player.
"Your… your elbow," Kian said, his voice quiet, but it carried in the dead-still air.
"SHUT UP!" Milo yelled, his eyes filling with angry tears. "Don't… don't talk to us! You're… you're a liar!"
"I am," Kian said, his voice cutting, clear. "I lied. And you… you hate me. That's… fine."
He took a step toward them. They flinched again.
"But… your follow-through," Kian said, his voice dead-level, the "Coach" voice, but… hollower. "It's trash."
Milo's head snapped up, his fury and confusion warring. "What?"
"Your elbow… you fixed it," Kian said, his voice flat, analytical. "You… you tucked it. But… your shot… it's still bad. You're… you're snapping your wrist. Like… like you're flicking something. You're not… holding the follow-through. You're… you're not respecting the shot. It's… it's lazy."
He was… he was dissecting him. He was analyzing him. He was… seeing him.
"You… you told me… you didn't know me!" Milo's voice was a wail.
"I know… your shot," Kian corrected, his voice sharp. "And it… it sucks. You're… you're lazy. You… you fixed… the elbow. And then… and then you quit."
He held the ball. He didn't offer it. He didn't toss it. He just… held it.
"Are… are you… going to fix it?" Kian asked. "Or… or are you just… going to sit there… and… and cry… about… about me?"
It was… it was the cruelest… most honest… most Kian way… he could have possibly… apologized.
He wasn't offering… friendship. He wasn't asking for forgiveness.
He was… offering… work.
Milo… Milo stared. He stared at the… the jerk… the liar… the monster… who had broken his heart.
He… he hated him. He hated Kian Vance.
But… in that moment… he hated… his lazy follow-through… more.
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. He… he stood up.
He walked off the bleachers. He walked onto the cracked asphalt. He… he snatched… the ball… from Kian's… hands.
"It's… it's not… lazy," Milo muttered, his voice thick with tears and rage.
"It is," Kian said. "You're… you're quitting… on... on the shot. Show me. Show me… it's not… lazy."
Milo… Milo snarled. He… he dribbled. He… he went… to the… free-throw… line.
He… he tucked… his elbow.
He… he shot.
He… he held… his follow-through.
Swish.
The sound… was… deafening.
Milo… Milo stared… at the… hoop.
He… he turned… his head. He… he looked… at… Kian.
He… he still… hated… him.
But… he… he didn't.
Kian… Kian didn't… smile. He… he didn't… praise… him.
He just… nodded. Once.
"Again," Kian said. "It... it was slow."
Milo… Milo snarled… again.
He… he got… his rebound.
Kian… Kian walked… to the… bleachers. He… he sat… in his... spot.
He… he opened... his sketchbook.
The... the other... kids... they... they slowly... slid... off... the... bleachers.
They... they picked... up... their... own... ball.
They... they started... to... practice.
Ana... Ana picked... up... her... ball. She... she started... her... bounce-pass... drill.
KFill... Kian... watched. He... watched... Milo's... shot.
He... he put... his... pencil... to... his... paper.
He... he wasn't... drawing... Milo's... face.
He... he was... drawing... Milo's... hand. His... his follow-through. The... the... form.
He... he was... fixing... it.