BRANDT POV
I never thought I'd say this, but being the wingman for a literal masterpiece is an exhausting, full-time job.
We were at the South Pier blacktop, a cage of chain-link fence and cracked asphalt that usually saw more fistfights than actual points. The Old Man—Kwame—had dropped us off with a cryptic nod about "observing local kinetic recreations" before disappearing to go stare at a lighthouse or whatever geniuses do in their spare time. That left me alone with Adam.
"Adam," I said, bouncing the ball between my legs as we walked onto the court. "Rule number one: Don't use your... you know. The gold stuff. No glowing, no floating, and for the love of everything, do not move so fast that you blur. You're just a guy. A tall, suspiciously handsome guy."
Adam looked at the hoop, his head tilting with that analytical precision that always made me feel like he was calculating the atomic weight of the air. "I understand, Brandt. I will limit my output to five percent of my musculoskeletal capacity. I have processed the rules of 'Basketball.' It is a game of spatial dominance and projectile trajectory."
"It's a game of looking cool, man! Just... vibe."
There were six guys already there—regulars from the docks. Big, sweaty dudes who looked like they ate gravel for breakfast. They looked at me and smirked, then they looked at Adam and stopped smirking. Adam was wearing a plain black t-shirt and shorts, but even in basic gear, he looked like he'd been carved out of marble.
"Hey," one of the guys, a massive dude named Jax, called out. "You guys want to run a full-court? We need two."
"We're in," I said, tossing the ball to Jax.
The game started, and for the first three minutes, I was just trying to survive. But then, Adam started to move.
It wasn't that he was cheating; it was that he was perfect. He didn't jump high—at least, not "superhuman" high—but he was always exactly where the ball was going to be. His defense was like a brick wall that happened to be made of silk. He'd steal the ball without even touching the other guy's skin, his hand moving in a blink-and-you-miss-it flash of speed.
"Adam! Open!" I yelled, breaking toward the three-point line.
He didn't just pass the ball. He delivered it with the accuracy of a laser-guided missile. I caught it, pivoted, and sank a long-range shot that felt like pure butter.
"Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!" I shouted, holding up a hand for a high-five.
Adam stared at my hand for a second, remembered the "social protocol," and slapped it. I'm pretty sure my palm went numb instantly.
By the second quarter, a crowd was starting to gather. This was the South Pier, so a crowd usually meant people looking for a fight, but this was different. Word had spread that some "New Model" was tearing up the court. A group of girls from the nearby vocational school had stopped by, leaning against the fence with their phones out.
"Who is that?" I heard one of them whisper. "The one with the black hair? He looks like a movie star."
I looked at Adam. He was standing at the free-throw line, a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple—which, frankly, was probably the most human thing he'd done all day. He wasn't even breathing hard. He looked up, his eyes catching the light, and for a second, they weren't just brown—they had that deep, honey-gold shimmer.
He took the shot. Swish.
"Hey! Nice shot!" one of the girls called out, tossing her hair. "You from around here?"
Adam turned. He looked at her with a blank, polite expression. "I am currently residing in the hotel district. My origin is... complex."
"Complex? I like complex," she giggled.
I stepped in before he could start explaining the logistics of Rift-stabilization or something equally mood-killing. "He's shy!" I told the girls, giving them a winning grin. "He's my cousin from... out of state. Very strictly focused on his athletics. Right, Adam?"
"I am focused on the 'vibe,' as Brandt instructed," Adam said solemnly.
The girls giggled harder. I swear, the guy could read the phone book and they'd think it was poetry.
The game heated up. Jax and his crew weren't happy about being shown up by a couple of "pretty boys." They started playing dirty—elbows in the ribs, stepping on toes. One of them tried to screen Adam by leaning into him with all 250 pounds of dock-worker muscle. It was like watching a car hit a concrete pylon. The guy bounced off Adam, stumbled back, and fell flat on his ass. Adam didn't even wobble.
"You okay, man?" Adam asked, reaching down to help him up. He looked genuinely concerned, totally oblivious to the fact that he was essentially an immovable object.
"You're made of iron, kid," Jax muttered, shaking his head.
In the final minutes, I found my rhythm. Maybe it was the energy Adam radiated—that Golden Impulse wasn't visible, but I could feel it. It felt like the air was charged with static, making me feel lighter, faster. I was hitting shots I had no business making. I drove to the basket, faked a pass to Adam, and did a reverse layup that had the girls at the fence screaming.
"Did you see that?" I yelled at Adam.
"Your kinetic execution was highly efficient, Brandt," Adam said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his mask.
We won the game by twenty points. As we walked off the court, the girls practically swarmed. One of them—a brave one with a nose ring—walked right up to Adam.
"Hey, I'm Chloe. We're going to get some sodas at the boardwalk. You guys want to come?"
Adam looked at me, his eyes wide with a sudden, localized panic. He looked like he was facing down a Grade-A Rift monster.
"We'd love to," I started to say, but Adam stepped back.
"I have a prior engagement," he said, his voice regaining that "Prince" authority. "A debt involving commodities. Specifically, I must ensure the safety of a girl named June."
The girls blinked. "June? Is that your girlfriend?"
Adam paused. He looked toward the city, where the lights were starting to flicker on in the twilight. His expression softened into something so intensely personal that Chloe actually took a half-step back, realizing she was outclassed.
"She is... the foundation," Adam said quietly.
I grabbed his arm, steering him toward the exit before he could get any more poetic. "Okay! Thanks for the game, guys! Chloe, call me!" I yelled over my shoulder, but let's be real, she wasn't looking at me.
As we walked away from the courts, the adrenaline started to fade, replaced by a weird, grounding sense of peace. Adam was looking at his hands, turning them over in the moonlight.
"Brandt," he said.
"Yeah, man?"
"The girls. Why did they look at me in that manner? I was merely performing the required athletic movements."
"Because you're a god, Adam. Or close enough. People are drawn to things that shine." I looked at him, the tall, silent masterpiece who was worried about a girl in a teal hoodie. "But don't worry. I think June likes you for the 'complex' stuff, not just the jump shots."
"I hope so," Adam murmured. "The jump shots are... relatively simple. Being a 'vibe' is significantly more difficult."
I laughed, punching him lightly on the shoulder. "You're getting there, Goldie. You're getting there."