Practice the next day felt different from the moment Darius walked into the gym. His body had recovered from the five-hour training session—the system had been right about needing rest—but his mind was sharper than ever. The Quick Step trait felt natural now, integrated completely into his movement patterns.
He went through warmups with the rest of first string, but his movements had a precision that made people notice. Every cut was sharper. Every change of direction was quicker. His defensive slides looked effortless, his feet barely making sound as they glided across the hardwood.
"Yo, D moving different today," Terrell said to Derek during layup lines. "You see that?"
"Yeah," Derek replied, his eyes tracking Darius as he attacked the basket with an explosiveness that seemed enhanced. "Kid looks faster somehow."
When scrimmages started, the difference became impossible to ignore.
Darius was matched against Jonathan in a five-on-five. The senior point guard brought the ball up, confident in his ability to run the offense. But when he tried his usual move—a quick crossover to create separation—Darius stayed attached like a shadow. His lateral quickness was different now, his body responding before Jonathan's move was fully executed.
Jonathan tried again. Same result. His frustration was visible.
On offense, Darius attacked with the same enhanced speed. His first step got him past defenders before they could react. His hesitation moves created separation that hadn't been there before. When he drove baseline, his body changed direction so quickly that his defender stumbled trying to stay in front.
"Man, what the hell?" Jonathan muttered after Darius blew past him for the third consecutive possession. "You been taking steroids or something?"
Darius just smiled and jogged back on defense.
But it wasn't just against Jonathan. Henderson couldn't stay in front of him. Davis's closeouts were consistently late. Even Derek—one of the best perimeter defenders on the team—found himself struggling to contain Darius's enhanced quickness.
The only person who matched him was Khalil.
When Darius drove into the paint, Khalil was there, his timing perfect, his positioning impeccable. When Khalil posted up, Darius couldn't defend him directly, but his help defense rotations were fast enough to disrupt the entry passes.
The scrimmage evolved into something more than practice. It became competition. Not friendly. Not casual. Real.
Darius had the ball at the top of the key. He attacked off the dribble, his first step explosive. He drove into the paint where Khalil stepped up. Instead of pulling back, Darius kept going, challenging him directly.
He rose up for a floater. Khalil jumped, his hand reaching the ball at its apex. The contest was perfect, but Darius adjusted mid-air, releasing it at an impossible angle.
The ball kissed off the glass and dropped through.
Khalil's jaw tightened. He caught the inbound and immediately looked for position on the left block. The entry pass came. He backed down his defender with three powerful dribbles, each one moving closer to the basket. He spun baseline and rose up for a dunk.
Darius rotated from the weak side at full speed, his enhanced quickness getting him there just in time. His hand reached toward the ball—
Khalil adjusted, finishing through the contact anyway. The ball went through with force.
On the next possession, Darius attacked again. His crossover at the top of the key was so quick it froze his defender completely. He drove baseline, absorbed contact from Khalil's help defense, and finished with a reverse layup.
Khalil answered. Caught it in the post, backed down his defender, then kicked it out when the double team came. The ball swung to their shooting guard for an open three. Good.
Back and forth. Darius creating offense with his enhanced quickness and decision-making. Khalil dominating the paint with his size and skill. Both of them elevating their games beyond what practice usually required.
The intensity kept climbing. Darius's drives became more aggressive. Khalil's post moves became more physical. Their teammates were caught in the middle, struggling to keep up with two players operating at a different level.
"Box out!" Khalil shouted after Darius grabbed an offensive rebound. His voice carried frustration that his teammates weren't executing.
"Get back!" Darius yelled when their defense allowed an easy transition basket. His tone was sharp, demanding.
The scrimmage stopped being about team basketball and became about individual dominance. Who could impose their will more effectively. Who was truly the best player in the gym.
Darius drove hard into the paint. Khalil stepped up. The contact was significant—not a foul, but close. Darius finished through it anyway, the and-one layup drawing reactions from everyone watching.
"That's a foul!" someone on Khalil's team shouted.
"Clean contest!" someone on Darius's team countered.
Khalil grabbed the ball immediately and checked it hard to his point guard. "Run it back."
The next possession, Khalil posted up with intensity that bordered on excessive. He backed his defender down so aggressively that it was almost a charge. He finished with a dunk that made the rim bend.
Darius brought it right back. Attacked off the dribble with that Quick Step creating separation. Pulled up from twenty-five feet with Khalil closing out late.
Swish.
"Come on!" Darius shouted, his voice echoing through the gym.
Coach Martinez's whistle cut through the intensity like a knife. Sharp. Immediate. "STOP!"
Everyone froze. The ball bounced loose, but nobody moved to grab it.
Martinez walked onto the court, his face showing something between frustration and disbelief. "What are you two doing?"
Darius and Khalil stood on opposite ends of the court, both breathing hard, both still locked in that competitive mindset.
"This is practice," Martinez continued, his voice carrying authority that demanded attention. "PRACTICE. Not a playoff game. Not a personal vendetta match. Practice. You're supposed to be making your teammates better, not trying to destroy each other."
He looked at Darius, then at Khalil. "You're both playing at an elite level. Everyone sees it. But you're also making this about you instead of about the team. That stops now."
The gym was silent. Even the players on the bench had stopped their side conversations.
"Take a water break," Martinez said, his tone final. "When we come back, we're running team concepts. Not hero ball. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach," Darius and Khalil said in unison.
As everyone dispersed to the water coolers, the energy in the gym slowly decompressed. Players were talking quietly, processing what they'd just witnessed—two freshmen going at each other with intensity that surpassed most of the starters.
Derek walked over to where Darius was drinking water. "Yo, you good?"
"Yeah," Darius said, his breathing controlled now. "I'm good."
"You and Khalil were about to actually fight out there."
"Nah. Just competing."
"That wasn't competing. That was war." Derek's voice carried something like respect. "You both been playing different lately. Like, noticeably different. You especially. What changed?"
Darius just shrugged. "Just been working. Trying to get better."
"Well, it's showing. You're levels above where you were even last week." Derek paused. "Only person keeping up with you is Khalil. Rest of us are just trying not to look bad."
Darius didn't respond, but he knew Derek was right. The gap was widening. Not because his teammates were getting worse, but because he and Khalil were improving at a rate that felt almost supernatural.
Practice resumed with team drills and structured sets. The intensity from earlier had been reined in, but everyone still felt it—that understanding that Riverside had two weapons that were becoming harder to contain with each passing day.
After practice ended, as players were heading to the showers, Coach Martinez called everyone back for a final huddle. His expression was serious, his posture suggesting what he was about to say mattered.
"Before you leave," Martinez began, his voice cutting through the locker room noise, "I want to talk about our next game."
Everyone settled in, giving him their attention.
"Friday night. Home game. We're playing Cedar Hill Prep."
The name got a few reactions—Cedar Hill was a solid B-tier school, well-coached, competitive. But it was the next part that changed the energy completely.
"Their point guard is someone some of you might recognize. Junior. Elite talent. One of the best guards in the district."
Martinez paused, his eyes finding Darius in the group.
"Jace Carter."
The name hit Darius like a physical force. His chest tightened. His breathing stopped for just a second.
Jace Carter. The TikTok famous prodigy. The player who'd beaten him 116-113 in the Junior Championship semifinals. The one who'd asked "Who are you?" in that bathroom with genuine confusion, like Darius wasn't even worth remembering.
The player who'd sent Darius into six months of obsessive training that had led to everything—the coma, the system, the transformation into who he was now.
Around him, teammates were talking, strategizing, discussing Jace's game. But Darius heard none of it. His mind was somewhere else entirely, replaying that bathroom scene, that game, that loss that had defined everything that came after.
"Darius."
He looked up. Martinez was staring at him with an expression that said he knew exactly what that name meant.
"You good?"
Darius nodded slowly, his voice coming out steady despite the storm in his chest. "Yeah, Coach. I'm good."
But as the team dispersed, as players headed to the showers still talking about Cedar Hill and Jace Carter's reputation, Darius sat at his locker, his hands clasped together, his eyes distant.
Jace Carter. Friday night. Home game.
The bathroom disrespect. The 116-113 loss. The question that had haunted him for six months: "Who are you?"
Chills ran down his spine—not from fear, but from anticipation. From the knowledge that everything he'd worked for, everything he'd transformed himself into, was about to be tested against the player who'd started it all.
Beside him, Khalil was packing his bag, his movements methodical. He glanced at Darius and seemed to sense something had shifted.
"You know him?" Khalil asked quietly.
"Yeah," Darius said, his voice barely audible. "I know him."
Khalil nodded once and didn't ask anything else. But his expression showed understanding—the kind that came from recognizing when someone had history with an opponent that went beyond just basketball.
The locker room slowly emptied. Players heading home. Conversations fading. But Darius remained seated, his mind already three days ahead, already visualizing Friday night, already preparing for the moment he'd been unconsciously training for since he woke up from that coma.
Jace Carter was coming to Riverside's home court.
And this time, when Jace asked who he was, Darius would answer with his game instead of his name.