They moved to the checkout line. Only one register was open. Ahead of them, an older woman unloaded a basket full of onions. Enough to start a tear-gas factory.
Jordan wanted to make a joke about that but Evan was quick to stop him.
They waited. The hum of the freezer units filled the silence, until Jordan couldn't hold it in anymore. He needed to let out words from his mouth.
"Hey," Jordan said, nudging Evan. "Earlier. Why did you ask me about a 'weird guy in black'?"
Evan shifted the heavy basket to his other arm. "Just curious. It was nothing."
"Right," Jordan said, chewing his lip. He looked around, eyes sparkling with that specific gleam he got when he found a new conspiracy theory. "Because on the way here, I saw something online. About Goldman's. The jewelry store on 4th."
"The robbery?" Evan shrugged. "I saw the videos but didn't bother to watch them."
"That's the thing you missed. It wasn't normal," Jordan said, his voice rising with excitement. "Someone leaked a clip of the security feed before the cops scrubbed it. The guy was a glitch, Evan. The camera couldn't even catch him. Just a smudge on the frame."
Evan didn't react. "Cameras lag. Especially the cheap ones Goldman uses."
Jordan saw Evan wasn't buying it. He needed a second opinion. He leaned over the plexiglass partition.
"Yo, Marcus!" Jordan called out. "You saw the Goldman video, right?"
Marcus paused mid-scan on an onion. His eyes went wide. "Bro. The door? That was wild."
Jordan spun back to Evan, grinning vindictively. "See? Marcus knows. Tell him about the door, Marcus."
"The steel security door in the back," Marcus said, looking at Evan. "It wasn't cut with a torch. It was ripped. Like… torn open."
"Exactly!" Jordan shouted, throwing his hands up. Everyone in the line—Mrs. Gable, Big Tony, even the guy stocking shelves—looked over. Jordan didn't care. He was holding court.
"Ripped like wet cardboard," Jordan emphasized, looking at the small audience. "I saw the photo. The metal was twisted outward. Jagged edges. And the craziest part? There were indentations."
He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper that still carried to the back of the store.
"Finger marks. In the steel."
The store went quiet for a second. Mrs. Gable looked scandalized. Big Tony grunted in approval.
Evan frowned. He processed the data.
"That's physics-breaking," Evan said flatly. "You can't tear reinforced steel by hand. It bends. To actually rip it—to overcome the yield strength of that alloy—you'd need the torque of a hydraulic press. If a human tried that, their arm would snap long before the door did."
"Cops didn't find any hydraulics," Jordan countered, crossing his arms. "And the blur on the camera? It was human-sized."
"You said there were finger marks. So, they got fingerprints?"
"I don't care about fingerprints," Jordan hissed. "All I can think about is that someone out there has the kind of strength to tear through steel like it's tissue paper."
"Or," Evan said, stepping forward as the line moved, "it was a shaped charge explosive that warped the metal, and the internet is seeing what it wants to see."
Jordan rolled his eyes. "You're no fun. You'd debunk Santa Claus if you could run the math on his sleigh velocity."
"Santa Claus defies aerodynamic drag coefficients," Evan muttered. "It's impossible."
"See? This is what I mean." Jordan laughed, shaking his head. "But imagine if it was real. Evolution? Mutation? Super human?"
Evan looked at his friend. Jordan was beaming. This was his thing. He loved the idea that the world was more than just bills, gravity, and the grind.
Evan managed a small nod. He didn't want to ruin the moment.
"Sure. It would be amazing."
That was all he could say. Seeing Jordan like this, Evan knew he couldn't mention the man in black. He couldn't mention the silence. He definitely couldn't mention the card in his pocket that was still unnaturally cold against his thigh.
He pushed the thought down.
Evan stepped up to the counter. Marcus scanned the items with practiced lethargy.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He picked up the neon bag of sour worms last. Marcus looked at it, then at Evan.
"Toxic Waste worms?" Marcus asked.
"Don't ask," Evan sighed. "Jordan's."
"Total is $24.50," Marcus said.
Evan tapped his phone against the terminal. He didn't look at his balance. He already knew the math.
They grabbed the bags and stepped back out into the evening air.
The temperature had dropped ten degrees while they were inside. The sky was officially dark. The clouds were a solid wall of charcoal, low and heavy, swirling with promised violence. The wind whipped trash down the street, and the streetlights cast a harsh sodium glare on the wet pavement.
Evan shifted the grocery bag to his left hand.
"So," Evan said. "Where are you heading now? Home?"
Jordan adjusted his backpack straps. "Nah. I've got my gear. Shoes, towel, water."
"You're going to the court?" Evan looked up at the sky. "Jordan, it's going to storm in about three minutes."
"Not the outdoor court," Jordan corrected. "Rec Center. Indoor futsal. The guys booked a slot." He looked at Evan, his expression softening. "You should come. Just watch. Or… you know. Sub in. We need a fantasista."
Evan sighed. The Rec Center. The smell of rubber floors and sweat. The squeak of sneakers.
"Wish I could," Evan said. "Can't risk an ankle. I miss a shift, I don't eat."
Jordan grinned, but his eyes were serious. "Come on, man. We were the Deadly Duo back in school. Remember the National Final? That cross you sent me?"
Evan managed a quiet smile. "I remember. You headed it in from twenty yards out. Lucky shot."
"Skill," Jordan corrected, tapping his temple. "Pure skill."
The smile faded from Jordan's face slowly.
"It's a shame, really," Jordan said after a pause. "You weren't just good, Evan. You were better than me or anyone. Way better."
Evan looked away, staring at a flickering streetlight. "Doesn't matter now."
"It does," Jordan insisted. "You had the… everything. Vision. Technique. If… if you could have taken that academy spot…"
"It doesn't matter anymore," Evan said gently. "It's old math. The variables changed."
They fell into the quiet memory.
They had both been scouted. Different academies. The academies were the gateway to the pro leagues. Jordan's family had planned to scrape the savings together. They were ready to sell a car, maybe borrow from relatives.
Evan had tried to find the loophole. He'd asked the recruiter about the full-ride program. The man had smiled—a shark showing its teeth—and pointed to the fine print.
Merit Scholarship Applied: 40%.
Evan remembered his parents looking at the paperwork for the remaining balance.
Tuition: $3,000 per semester.
Mandatory Kit & Insurance: $1,200.
Travel Expenses: Not Included.
The "scholarship" wasn't an opportunity. It was a sales tactic. A discount coupon for a lifestyle they couldn't afford. The full rides didn't go to the kids from Edgewater; they went to the sons of ex-pros or political favors. The academy didn't want talent; they wanted clients. It wasn't just a fee. It was a filter.
Evan remembered his father staring at the paper, the shame burning in his eyes, before quietly putting it in the trash.
They didn't go. Evan refused to let his parents starve for a game. Jordan made the same call. It was too much for his family, too.
Years later, Jordan's family business took off, and they were fine. But the window for the pro leagues had closed. They were twenty now. In the sports world, they were ancient.
Evan checked his phone.
"I'm already late," he lied. He wasn't late. He just couldn't handle the what ifs anymore. "I need to get these eggs home before they hatch."
Jordan nodded, sensing the retreat. "No worries. We'll kick around another day. When the weather isn't trying to kill us."
"Yeah," Evan said. "Not tonight."
They walked together for a few more blocks, the wind tugging at their clothes. They stopped at the intersection.
"See you around, man," Jordan said. He held out a fist.
Evan bumped it. "See you. Don't break a leg."
"Don't work yourself to death."
Jordan turned and jogged off toward the Rec Center, his athletic stride eating up the distance. He moved with a bounce, a lightness that Evan hadn't felt in years.
Evan stood there, watching him fade into the gloom.
They had taken different roads. Evan had dived into the academic grind, chasing scholarships, believing that intellect was the only way out of Edgewater. Jordan had taken time off, worked for his family, lived.
Now, Evan was buried under false accusations and debt. Jordan was happy.
Did I miscalculate? Evan wondered. Was the grind the wrong variable?
He shook his head, pushing the doubt away. Solve the problem in front of you. Rent first. Philosophy later.
A low, deep rumble of thunder echoed across the sky. It shook the ground beneath his feet. Evan looked up. The clouds were swirling, black and heavy.
"Great," he muttered. "Here it comes."
He picked up his pace toward his apartment building, clutching the bag of groceries like a lifeline.
He didn't notice the faint glow coming from his pocket.
Deep inside the fabric of his jeans, the pitch-black 'EMPEROR' card pulsed. It shimmered gold—a bright, pure light that cut through the denim for a fraction of a second.
Then, the storm broke.