The late evening air inside Lucas Graves' gym was heavy with the sound of bouncing balls, sneakers squeaking, and short bursts of laughter. The team had gathered after practice, the energy still buzzing from their recent victory. But as the drills slowed and the chatter died down, everyone noticed Ethan's expression. His eyes weren't on the court. They were on Coonie.

Coonie had been quieter than usual, sarcasm dulled, his usual sass replaced with a silence that didn't suit him. He sat slouched against the wall, hoodie pulled low, staring at nothing in particular.

Ethan finally broke it. "Guys… there's something I need to tell you."

The gym stilled. Even Louie, usually bouncing around like a pinball, stopped dribbling.

Ethan's voice was calm, but his words carried weight. "Coonie's been going through something. And it's not just stress or family drama. It's deeper."

Coonie's head snapped up, his sarcasm ready to deflect, but Ethan's eyes caught his. Steady. Firm. (Don't fight me on this… let me carry it too.)

Lucas crossed his arms, serious now, stepping closer. "What do you mean?"

Ethan hesitated only a second before continuing. "His family's… tied up in something. A pastor. Not the good kind. The manipulative kind."

A ripple of unease went through the team. Brandon frowned, Ryan whistled low, Evan's brows furrowed sharply.

Louie blurted out, "Wait, wait, you mean like cult shit?!"

Coonie groaned, burying his face in his hands. "God, don't make it sound like that."

But Ethan didn't let it go. He stepped forward, placing a hand on Coonie's shoulder. His voice dropped, soft but commanding. "Listen. You're not alone in this. Whatever's going on in your house, with your mom, with that pastor, we're your brothers. We fight together."

Coonie opened his mouth, sarcasm sharp on his tongue, but it cracked before it left. His throat tightened. He shut his mouth, looking away.

In that silence, Ethan's system flared to life.

[System Mission: Help a Friend in Need]

Reward: Shop Points – 10,000 | Upgrade Points – 1,000

Condition: Support Coonie Smith through his personal trial. Protect his bond to the team. Ensure he does not fall into despair.

Ethan's pupils contracted. (Ten thousand Shop Points? A thousand UP? That's… absurd. The system never gives this much. Unless… unless this is bigger than I think. Unless Coonie's not just in trouble, he's a turning point.)

He clenched his fist, the weight of it sinking in. (If the system is treating this like destiny, then I can't let him sink. Not for a second.)

Ryan leaned back on the wall, breaking the tension. "So what's the move, captain? You planning a rescue mission? Because I look great in black ops gear."

Louie puffed his chest out. "I'll be the guy with the cool sunglasses. Every squad needs one."

Lucas shot them both a sharp look, silencing the jokes. His gaze went back to Coonie. "No, seriously. If something's wrong, we don't laugh it off. We step up. You're family. You know that, right?"

Coonie swallowed, his voice quieter than usual. "I… didn't want to drag you all into this. It's my mess. My mom—she thinks she's protecting me, but she's blind. That pastor… he's twisting her. And I…" He paused, fists tightening. "I don't know what to do anymore."

Brandon, usually the quiet one, spoke firmly. "You don't have to know. That's why you've got us."

Jeremy chimed in from the bench. "Ethan's right. We're your team. No one gets left behind."

Kai, ever the optimist, added, "If your mom thinks this is for your good, we'll show her there's another way. That you already have something real. Us."

Ayumi, who had been listening silently near the scorer's table, finally stepped closer, her voice calm but steady. "Coonie… sometimes family isn't just blood. Sometimes it's the people who stand with you, even when you don't ask them to. You're not dragging them down. They want to help."

Coonie stared at the ground, throat thick. His sarcasm failed him again. For once, he didn't have a comeback. Just silence.

Ethan crouched in front of him, forcing his eyes to meet his. "You've been carrying this alone long enough. Let us carry it too."

The words cut through. Coonie blinked hard, jaw tight, but his shoulders slumped relief, exhaustion, a crack in the armor.

(Shit… they're serious. They actually… they actually care. Even after all my bullshit.)

Ethan stood, addressing the team. His tone shifted, sharp, tactical, the same way he drew plays in a game, but this was off the court. "Alright. This is bigger than basketball. If the system's telling me right, then helping Coonie isn't just about him—it's about all of us. About what comes next."

He glanced at Lucas, then Brandon, then the rest. "So here's the plan: we stay close. No one lets him spiral. No one lets him feel cornered. We're not just his teammates. We're his shield. Harbor, the league, the cult, whoever, it doesn't matter. If they come for him, they go through us first."

The gym filled with silence. Heavy. Sacred. Then Louie broke it, slamming his fist into his palm. "Hell yeah! Brother in arms, baby!"

Evan cracked a rare grin. "Brother in arms."

Ryan smirked, tilting his head at Coonie. "Guess you're stuck with us, sass-master. No refunds."

One by one, hands came out, Lucas first, then Brandon, then Louie, Evan, Ryan, Aiden, Josh, Jeremy, Kai. Finally, Ethan extended his hand last, steady, waiting.

Coonie stared at the pile of hands. His chest was tight, his throat burning. Slowly

hesitantly, he lifted his own and placed it on top.

The weight of it wasn't just physical. It was family.

Ethan's eyes burned with quiet fire. "Brother in arms."

The echo came from every voice, loud, fierce, unbreakable.

"BROTHER IN ARMS!"

The walls of the gym seemed to vibrate with it. And in that moment, for the first time in weeks, Coonie didn't feel alone. He felt anchored. Protected.

He didn't know what storms were coming. But with these brothers, he believed just for a moment that maybe he could survive them.

Meanwhile – Location: BAC U.S. Division, Executive Suite, Imperial Crest, Virginia

The boardroom was immaculate. White marble gleamed under recessed lighting, the brushed steel table stretching like a blade between shadows. The BAC crest a golden phoenix clutching a basketball hung on the far wall, flanked by two banners in black and red.

Romanov Graves stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, her reflection cast against the lights of the Virginia night. Power dripped from her posture—shoulders squared, chin lifted. Her sharp black suit hugged her figure, the single pin on her lapel glinting under the light: a minimalist phoenix, wings outstretched.

On the table, a silver nameplate sat untouched:

Romanov Graves – Executive Director, BAC U.S.

A knock tapped softly against the frosted glass door.

"Come in," Romanov said, her voice cool, sharp as crystal. She didn't turn.

The door slid open, and Director Shawn stepped inside, closing it carefully behind him. Mid-forties, tall but slightly hunched, his gray suit was practical, not tailored. His role was not to impress only to deliver truth. He was the Director of Healthcare Operations, the one tasked with monitoring athlete safety under BAC's oversight.

He adjusted his glasses nervously, a file clutched in his hands.

Romanov finally pivoted, her eyes narrowing like twin blades. "Well, Director Shawn. How's the athlete?"

Shawn cleared his throat, his voice steady but low. "Stable now. Vitals are holding, recovery is within expected parameters. No permanent damage was sustained."

Romanov studied him for a long beat, then moved closer, her heels silent on the marble. She stopped only inches away, looking down at the file.

"And the lead?" she asked, her tone unyielding. "Did you analyze it?"

Shawn nodded quickly, opening the file and laying out photographs and test results across the steel table. Pages filled with chemical breakdowns and blood reports spread like evidence in a courtroom.

"Yes. And you were right." His hand hovered over the page, finger tracing the lines of numbers and compounds. "The drugs they used carry the same markers as the popular supplement brand, VelocityMax. Marketed as 'energy and endurance boosters,' but in higher concentrations, it mutates into something… darker."

Romanov's lips curved in a faint, humorless smile. "Of course. The wolves always wear sheep's clothing."

Her eyes flicked up, razor sharp. "But another drug was present, wasn't it?"

Shawn hesitated. His fingers tightened on the edge of the folder. "Yes. A secondary compound. Different structure, unstable. It's not the same as Greg's formula… but similar in nature."

Romanov's voice cut clean through him. "Not the same as Greg?"

Shawn shook his head. "No. Greg's compound was built for muscle density—raw physical enhancement. This one…" He paused, adjusting his glasses again. "…this one affects neural pathways. Reflexes, reaction time, even perception. It doesn't just make the body stronger. It makes the mind believe it's faster than it really is. Dangerous illusions, but effective in short bursts."

Romanov's gaze hardened, her fingers brushing her chin in thought. "So they're not just chasing strength anymore. They're chasing gods."

Silence draped the boardroom. The hum of the air vents, the faint city lights flickering below, were the only sounds.

Finally, Romanov stepped back, her silhouette cutting clean against the window. "And the source?"

Shawn shook his head slowly. "We traced the supply lines, but they're fragmented. Whoever's distributing knows how to bury their trail. Different fronts, different shell companies. If I had to guess, it's organized. Not street-level."

Romanov's eyes narrowed further. "Organized. Strategic. Calculated."

She turned, her back to Shawn, her reflection staring back at her from the glass. "This isn't just drugs, Shawn. This is warfare in disguise. Whoever is behind this isn't trying to make better athletes."

Her voice dropped, sharp, certain.

"They're trying to manufacture weapons."

Shawn swallowed hard, the words chilling even in the pristine luxury of the boardroom. He gathered his courage to speak. "What do you want us to do?"

Romanov's reflection smirked, cold and knowing.

"Simple. Tighten surveillance. Every team, every player, every coach—we monitor their health like hawks. No exceptions." She turned back, eyes like steel. "And Shawn… if another incident surfaces, I want it on my desk before anyone else's. No leaks. No mercy."

Shawn bowed his head slightly, clutching the file. "Understood."

Romanov returned her gaze to the night outside, where the world seemed small beneath the Imperial Crest tower.

(Greg's ghost… and now another variant. If they think they can resurrect his shadow under my watch, they're fools. This is my domain. My empire.)

Her fingers brushed the glass as if tracing the lights of the city.

"Let them play their games," she whispered to herself. "I'll end them before they even begin."

The room fell into silence once more, the weight of her words heavier than the marble walls.

To be continue

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