Extra Basket

A night breeze drifted through the brownstone steps, carrying the faint hum of New York traffic. Raul Albarado leaned against the railing, his broad shoulders relaxed, his grin small but certain. Beside him, Ethan stood still in his travel jacket, the porch light brushing streaks of gold across his blond hair. For a long while, neither spoke. The echoes of the evening—victory, sweat, the roar of a gym still fresh in their bones—hung in the silence.

Raul finally broke it. "You've really grown strong, Ethan. As expected of my nephew." His tone carried the weight of a man who had lived basketball, not just played it.

Ethan gave a modest smile, not too wide, not too sharp. "Well… I'm trying to be better." He hesitated, then turned his gaze toward Raul, his voice sharpening. "And also… how's Cloud?"

At the mention of his son, Raul's grin deepened with paternal pride. "Cloud? He's in the semi-final too. Worked his tail off for it."

Ethan blinked, surprise flickering. "Really? Then… we'll fight on the court someday."

Raul chuckled, rich and calm, as if the thought had already crossed his mind a hundred times. "If that's how fate writes it, then yes."

Ethan's eyes grew distant. He saw Cloud as clearly as if he stood in front of him—sixteen now, blond hair like his own but sharper, more deliberate. A prodigy. The kind of player who seemed born with the ball in his hand.

Memories pressed in: cracked concrete, squeaking sneakers, summer sweat. Cloud blowing past him with ease, every shot smooth and effortless, while Ethan trailed behind, lungs burning. Always behind. Always losing.

(Well… back then, I didn't have my past life memories. I didn't have the system either. But now? Now it's different.)

The vow sat heavy in his chest. This time, he wouldn't be the boy in Cloud's shadow. This time, he would stand in front of him. A rival, not a follower.

Inside the house, laughter spilled from the dining room. Anna's bright voice, his aunt's chatter, the soft rhythm of family warmth. But out here, the air was stripped down, quiet, private just Raul, Ethan, and the unspoken ghost of Cloud.

Raul glanced sideways at him. "You know, when you two were kids, Cloud came home bragging or sulking every single time after playing you. You pushed him, Ethan. More than you realize."

Ethan frowned, caught off guard. "Pushed him? I thought I was always behind. Always the one losing."

Raul shook his head, a faint smile tugging. "Prodigy or not, even geniuses need someone to chase. Someone to make the game matter. You gave him that. Don't underestimate your role."

The words lodged in Ethan's chest. Pride mixed with disbelief, tightening his throat. He tilted his head back, looking at the New York sky—faint stars smothered by city light.

Raul's voice grew steadier. "You'll meet him soon. But it won't be kids messing around in the backyard anymore. It'll be men fighting for something bigger." He clapped Ethan's shoulder, firm, grounding. "So be ready."

This time, Ethan didn't smile modestly. His grin cut sharp, determined, almost defiant. "I will. Next time I face Cloud… I'll be standing as his equal."

For a beat, Raul just studied him, then nodded with a knowing grin. "That's what I wanted to hear."

Later that night, Ethan lay awake in the guest room. His mind wouldn't let go. Cloud's image burned: a lean frame in a jersey, blond hair slick with sweat, eyes lit with focus as he drained shot after shot. The crowd roaring behind him.

(Cloud Albarado… the cousin I could never beat.)

Ethan's fists tightened against the sheets. He whispered into the dark, voice low but fierce. "Not this time."

The city hummed faintly outside, but inside, a storm churned in his chest, ambition, rivalry, hunger. Soon, fate would throw them onto the same court. And when it did, it wouldn't just be about family pride.

It would be about rewriting Ethan Albarado's story.

…

Cloud sat alone, the mask discarded on the table beside him. His platinum-blonde hair shimmered in the lamp's faint glow, while his green eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of longing and madness. In his hand, he held a portrait two boys, both fair-haired, one with calm blue eyes and the other with sharp emeralds. A faint smile curved his lips as his gloved fingers traced the picture's edge, lingering on the boy with yellow hair and blue eyes.

It wasn't just memory. It was obsession etched deep into every glance, every breath, every thought.

Cloud's smile curled, faint but unsettling, as his gloved finger traced the edge of Ethan's face in the picture. "Ethan…" he whispered, the word almost reverent. "How I want to meet you. But not now… not yet. Not until I've become someone worthy of standing before you."

He leaned back, head resting against the cushion. The photograph dangled from his hand, and memories spilled over him like an old film reel.

Long afternoons under a fading sun. The sound of sneakers skidding on cracked concrete. Ethan's laugh bright, alive ringing through the air. Always ahead. Always shining.

"You never looked back, did you?" Cloud murmured, voice softer now. "Never once noticing I was right there. Watching. Waiting. Wanting you to see me."

Bitterness crept in, darkening his gaze. His smile tightened, faltered. He sat forward, gripping the portrait until the frame creaked.

"I want you to look at me the way you used to, Ethan. I want your focus. Only me."

The words fell heavy, equal parts vow and plea. For Cloud, Ethan wasn't just family. He was the axis of his world, the beacon that lit him, the shadow that tormented him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling slow. His chest rose and fell with practiced calm, but inside, his thoughts clawed at each other.

(I've bled, I've sacrificed, I've walked through fire Ethan can't imagine. But it's not enough. Not yet. I need more—more strength, more recognition, more power. Only then… only then will he see me. Not behind him. Not in his shadow. In front of him.)

The sudden buzz of his phone cut through the quiet, rattling against the table. The screen glowed with an encrypted code. Cloud sighed, placing the portrait carefully aside before answering.

"Cloud," a distorted voice rasped, metallic through the secure line. "The council requires your presence. Immediately."

Cloud leaned back, smirking. "The council… always summoning like shepherds calling sheep. Don't they ever tire of the charade?"

"This isn't for humor," the voice snapped. "The leader will be present. Attendance is mandatory."

Cloud chuckled, sharp and low. "Mandatory… you people love that word. You forget—I'm not here because I must. I'm here because it suits me. For now."

"Cloud," the tone hardened, "You know the consequences."

Cloud's smirk thinned, eyes glinting. "I know exactly what happens. Save your warnings. I'll be there."

He ended the call without waiting. Silence reclaimed the room. For a long moment, he stared at the ceiling, before slowly turning back to the photograph. His gloved fingertip brushed against Ethan's smile again, tender, almost aching.

(Every mission I take for them… every step, every drop of blood—it's fuel. Fuel for the day I stand before you again, Ethan. When that day comes… you won't see a boy behind you. You'll see Cloud—the one who became something undeniable. And then… maybe then, you'll give me your eyes again.)

He rose, moving with fluid precision. On the armrest, his mask waited: jet black, etched with thin silver lines like veins. He lifted it slowly, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Platinum hair spilling forward. Piercing green eyes—hidden now, buried behind the cold, faceless mask.

The boy in the photo was gone. What stared back was something forged, dangerous, untouchable.

"Ethan…" he whispered, his voice muffled through the mask. "Wait for me. You won't be able to look away."

A knock struck the door. Sharp. Impatient.

"Cloud," a voice called from the hall, firm. "We need to leave. The meeting has begun."

He didn't move at first. Instead, he set the portrait gently on the table, as though it were sacred. Straightening his jacket, he rolled his shoulders, his figure sharpening in the dim light.

"Tell them I'm coming."

The door opened, the hallway spilling in shadows. Cloud stepped out. The portrait remained behind.

In the dark, only one truth followed him.

(One day, Ethan… you'll have no choice but to face me. And when you do… will you remember the boy who once called you brother?)

…

Meanwhile on Lucas side

The gym echoed with the hollow thump of a ball striking wood. Sweat already dripped from Lucas Graves' jawline, streaking down to his shirt as he reset his stance. His eyes narrowed focused, almost burning.

"Dale Coleman's crossover… his timing is like a knife. Sharp, clean. If I don't catch the rhythm, I'll trip myself."

He lunged left, snapped the ball right, and exploded forward. The mimic was nearly perfect but his lungs screamed in protest. He staggered, caught himself, and smirked.

"Not enough. Again."

He bounced the ball back into his palm, shifting gears.

"Jordan's mid-air control… the hang time. He floats, even with a hand in his face."

Lucas drove into the paint, leapt, and twisted in the air, releasing a fadeaway. The ball kissed the rim before dropping in. His legs trembled as he landed, knees nearly giving.

The final trial burned worst of all.

"Iverson's killer crossover. The one that snaps ankles."

He dribbled low, back and forth, faster and faster, his calves on fire, sweat blurring his vision. One sudden step back, then an explosion forward, the ball glued to his hand. His body screamed, almost buckling under the effort, but he refused to stop.

To be continue