Kian didn't stop moving. He blew past the table monitors, past the surprised glances of other students, and shoved his way out of the cafeteria. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the wall of noise, but it was too late. The damage was done.
Coach Kian.
Silas's voice, laughing and accidental, was an ice pick in his ear. The one word he couldn't bear, the one label he'd spent years fleeing, had just been casually tossed at him by his best friend. In public.
He felt exposed. Raw. He couldn't go to his next class. He couldn't face the hallways. He couldn't face anyone. He was a raw nerve, and the entire world was a coarse, abrasive salt.
He bypassed the main corridor and took a side hall, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, his hands balled into fists. He needed a sanctuary. Not just a sanctuary, his sanctuary.
He pushed open the door to the middle school art room.
It was empty, as he knew it would be. The lunch period was almost over, and the next class wouldn't be in for another ten minutes. The room smelled of turpentine, clay, and the sharp, acidic tang of graphite. It was the only place in the building that smelled right.
He went to the back, to a tall, beat-up easel that was unofficially his. He grabbed his portfolio from the flat file, pulled out his current project—a large, complex architectural study of the Vance estate's library—and tacked it up.
He grabbed a 2H pencil. He tried to draw.
His hand was shaking.
He couldn't find the vanishing point. He couldn't get the lines straight. The cold, precise, mathematical comfort of perspective drawing was gone. All he could see was Silas's shocked, guilty face. All he could hear was that word.
Coach.
And underneath that, a new, irritating buzz: Sienna James.
He'd agreed to a date. He, Kian Vance, who couldn't stand to be in the same room as most people, had been cornered by a ruined shirt and a pair of calculating, symmetrical eyes. He'd agreed to coffee. He'd walked right into the most obvious, idiotic social trap, all because he'd been too raw from his other failure to think straight.
He pressed the pencil to the paper, too hard. The lead snapped.
"Damn it." He hissed the word into the quiet room.
He was losing control. The "virus" wasn't just in him; it was leaking. It had infected his time with the kids. It had infected his relationship with his brother. And now, it had infected his friendship with Silas and Ren. It was breaking down the walls of the carefully constructed, cold, safe world he had built.
He sat there, gripping the broken pencil, surrounded by the smell of paint, until the bell rang, signaling the end of the period. He was a wreck.
The rest of the school day was a blur of self-imposed isolation. He went to his classes. He sat in the back. He stared at his teachers, his expression so cold and forbidding that not one of them dared to call on him. He could feel the whispers. He was the "Ice-Man" again, but this time it wasn't a performance. It was a desperate, brittle shell.
When the final bell rang, he was the first one out. He needed to get to the quarry. He needed… he didn't know what he needed. He just had to go.
He walked out the front doors and was met with his first obstacle.
Silas and Ren were waiting for him by the bike racks. They weren't joking around. Silas looked like he was walking to his own execution. Ren looked, as always, analytical, but his arms were crossed. He was the mediator.
"Kian," Silas started, his voice miserable. "Man, I... I am so sorry. I... it just... it slipped out. I... I was just... I thought we were joking, and I... I broke the contract. I'm... I'm an idiot. I'm sorry."
Kian just looked at him. He saw the genuine, profound guilt in his friend's eyes. He saw the... the fear. Silas was afraid he'd broken their friendship.
Kian was... exhausted. He was too tired to be angry. He was too raw to fight. He just needed... containment.
"It's fine," Kian said. The words were cold, clipped.
Silas winced. "It's... it's not fine. I... I called you..."
"You did," Kian interrupted, his voice flat, emotionless. "It was stupid. Don't do it again."
He didn't wait for a reply. He unlocked his bike, slung his leg over, and started to ride.
"Kian, wait!" Silas called out, his voice desperate. "Are... are we... are we good?"
Kian stopped his bike, twenty feet away. He looked back, his eyes hidden by the afternoon glare. "Are you going to be an idiot again, Silas?"
"No," Silas said, his voice small. "I... I promise."
"Then we're good," Kian said. He rode away, leaving his friends standing by the racks.
"That..." Silas said, his shoulders slumping. "That... was not 'good'. He... he hates me."
Ren just sighed, adjusting his glasses. "No. He doesn't hate you. He's... terrified. You didn't just 'say a word,' Silas. You... you named his monster. You're lucky he's still speaking to you at all. Come on. He needs space. The variable is... unstable."
Kian rode with a cold, controlled fury. The interaction with Silas had only solidified his mood. He had re-established the wall. He had contained the damage.
Now, he had to go to the other place. The source of the infection.
He rode to the quarry.
The late afternoon was cool, but Kian felt hot. He was angry at Silas. He was angry at Sienna for trapping him. He was angry at Leo for understanding him. And he was furious at himself, for... for all of it.
He parked his bike, his movements sharp and jerky. He walked up the concrete steps to his spot.
They were there. Of course they were. Milo, Ana, Timmy, and the others. They were practicing.
They heard his footsteps. They stopped. They turned.
The looks on their faces were not the awestruck, hero-worshipping looks of the first day. They weren't even the betrayed, broken looks of the day he'd denied them.
They were… expectant. They looked like students. Students looking at a harsh, demanding, and utterly unpredictable teacher.
Kian sat. He opened his sketchbook. He didn't say hello.
"Milo," he said, his voice a flat, cold command.
Milo flinched, but he stepped forward. "Yeah, Mister?"
"Shoot," Kian said.
Milo nodded. He went to the free-throw line. He got the ball. He stood, his small body a picture of concentration. He went through the mental checklist Kian had beaten into him. Knees. Elbow. L-shape. Empty the lungs. Follow-through.
He shot. The ball arced. Swish.
It was a perfect shot.
Milo looked at Kian, a small, hopeful flicker in his eyes.
Kian just stared at him. "Your left foot was half an inch over the imaginary line. It doesn't count. Do it again."
Milo's face... fell. He looked down at his foot. "But... but it went in..."
"It was illegal," Kian snapped, his raw-nerve anger from school finally finding a target. "The rules... they matter. You... you practice perfectly, or you... you don't... practice at all. You... you think... a real... ref... is going to... to let that slide? You... you're cheating. You're cheating yourself. Do it. Again. And... and fix it."
Milo... just... looked at him. He was... terrified. But... he was... learning. He hated "Mister." But "Mister" was... right.
Milo nodded. He stepped back. He set his feet. Both of them. He shot again.
Swish.
Kian said nothing. He turned his gaze. "Ana!"
Ana jumped. "Yeah?"
"Your... your drill. It's... it's slow. Your... your feet... they're... they're lazy. You... you look like... you're... you're waiting... for... for a bus. Move! Explode! Left-push! Right-push! It's... it's a machine! Go!"
Ana, her eyes wide, nodded frantically. She and Timmy started again, their movements now sharp, panicked, and faster.
Kian turned his gaze back to his sketchbook. He was drawing the cracks in the asphalt, his pencil lines angry and sharp. He was… Coach Kian. He was… his father.
But he was... there. He hadn't left.
He was… different.
He was a monster. But he was their monster.
He "coached" them, in his cold, cruel, analytical way, for an hour. He broke down every mistake. He offered zero praise. He just... corrected. He fixed.
At 5:30, he closed his book.
The kids stopped, as if he'd blown a whistle. They were panting, sweating, and miserable. But… they were better.
"We're… we're done," Milo said, his voice tired.
Kian stood up. He slung his bag over his shoulder. He walked down the steps.
He walked past them. He didn't say "good job." He didn't say "goodbye."
But as he passed Milo, he stopped. He didn't look at him.
"Your... your footwork," Kian said, his voice low, "was... better. Tomorrow... it... it will be... perfect."
He walked away.
Milo... Milo watched him go. He... he wasn't... afraid. He... he wasn't... angry.
He... he understood. That... that was praise. That... that was... everything.
Kian met Leo at the driveway. The routine.
They walked in silence for a full minute. Leo was, as usual, buzzing from practice. Kian was, as usual, a black hole of emotional exhaustion.
"Rough… uh… day at the library?" Leo asked, their shared, protective lie.
"Something like that," Kian muttered.
"Yeah, me too," Leo said, surprisingly. "Practice was... it was weird. Coach Miller… he... he ran… that… that 1-3-1 trap... you… you hated."
Kian just grunted, his eyes on the gravel.
"And... you were right," Leo said.
Kian stopped. He looked up at his brother.
"You... you were... so... right," Leo said, his face animated. "We… we ran it against the... the second string. And... and they... they killed us. Their… their coach… just… just put… a… a shooter… in the… the corner. And… and he… he just… rained… threes. Skip-pass, shoot. Skip-pass, shoot. It was… it was a massacre."
Kian… Kian hated… that he felt… vindicated. He hated… that he cared.
"I… I told… Maya," Leo continued, "I said... 'My... uh... my friend... he... he called this.' And… and she… she ran... the stats. She… she said... 'Your… your friend... is… is right. This… this defense... it gives up... 1.4 points per possession... against… against a… a five-out offense.' She's… she's showing… Coach… the… the data... tomorrow."
Leo looked at Kian, his eyes shining. "She… she thinks... my... my 'friend'… is… is a genius."
Kian's stomach… twisted. He… he hated... Maya. He… he hated... data. He… he hated... being right.
"It's… it's… obvious," Kian said, starting to walk again. "It's… it's a… a stupid… defense."
"Yeah," Leo said, walking with him, his voice full of an energy Kian didn't have. "Yeah... it... it is."
They reached the house. Kian just wanted to get to his room. He wanted to draw. He wanted to hide.
He got to his room. He locked the door. He fell onto his bed.
His phone buzzed.
He never got texts. Ever.
He pulled it out. An unknown number.
Don't forget. Tomorrow, 3:30. The Grind. And you're paying.
—S
Kian stared at the message. S. Sienna.
He was... trapped.
His quarry "kids"... his brother's "scouting"... his "friends'" expectations... and now... this.
The world... his... world... it was... closing in. And he… he didn't… have… a wall… high enough… to… stop it.