The alarm never got a chance to sound.
Lucifer's eyes opened at 5:59 AM, one minute before the scheduled beep. Nine years of discipline had rewired his circadian rhythm into something mechanical. He killed the alarm and rolled out of bed in one motion, feet finding the hardwood floor with practiced silence.
The morning run was meditation disguised as exercise. Chicago's wealthy north side slept around him, mansions dark except for security lights that painted geometric shadows across manicured lawns. His breath came in controlled measures, visible in the September chill. Three miles at a seven-minute pace. Not pushing, just maintaining. The real work would come later.
Back home, the shower ran hot enough to fog the bathroom mirror. He dressed with the same efficiency—dark jeans that fit without trying too hard, a plain white tee, the Kyries he'd broken in over the past week. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screamed "look at me."
The universe, apparently, had other plans.
East View High's hallways hummed with that particular frequency of first-day energy mixed with something else. Whispers followed him like a wake behind a boat.
"Is that the guy who—"
"Twenty-one to zero, bro. Twenty-one to fucking zero."
"He's cuter in person."
"Lucky shot. Had to be."
A janitor pushing a mop bucket actually stopped mid-stride. "Hey, you're that kid from the clip, right? My nephew sent it to me. Damn."
Lucifer kept walking, eyes forward, wondering how the hell everyone knew who he was. The game had been a closed practice. The gym doors had been—
"Lucifer!"
Daphne materialized at his elbow, phone already extended. Her uniform—East View required them, unfortunately—somehow looked designer on her. "Look at this!"
The screen showed Echo, the social app that had somehow survived every competitor for the past five years. The video thumbnail was him, mid-crossover, Elijah falling in the background. The title read: "East View Captain HUMILIATED by Middle Schooler (21-0 UNCUT)."
View count: 1.2 million.
The comments scrolled past in real-time:
• "No way this kid's 14"
• "Editing? That crossover was too fast"
• "He moves like he's in the Zone"
• "Captain got COOKED 💀"
• "Anyone know his @?"
"Well, that explains it," Lucifer said.
"You're literally trending on Echo." Daphne's grin suggested she found this way more exciting than he did. "You're like a mini-celebrity!"
"Then let's hope fame doesn't ask for autographs."
She laughed, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Too late. Sarah from my dance class already asked if I could introduce you."
"No."
"I told her you were emotionally unavailable and possibly a robot."
"Accurate."
They compared schedules outside the main office. Every class together. Again. Lucifer looked at the identical lists, then at Daphne's too-innocent expression.
"Did you—"
"Would I manipulate the scheduling system just to ensure we had classes together?" She blinked with practiced innocence. "That would be wrong."
"Your mom's on the school board."
"Coincidence."
"Daphne."
"Pure cosmic alignment."
He should probably be annoyed. Instead, something in his chest did that thing it had been doing lately around her—a warmth he didn't want to examine too closely.
They claimed seats in first period. Front row, next to the door. Not for academic eagerness—Lucifer could sleep through these classes and still ace them—but for tactical positioning. Old habits from his past life: always know your exits.
The next eight hours crawled by with the speed of continental drift. Teachers introduced themselves with forced enthusiasm. Syllabi were distributed. Icebreakers were endured. Through it all, Lucifer's mind was already in the gym, already holding the ball, already in motion.
Finally, 3:15 PM.
The gym doors opened to controlled chaos. Two hundred kids in various states of athletic delusion, all convinced they were the next big thing. The noise hit like a physical wall—sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, voices trying to project confidence they didn't feel.
The moment Lucifer entered, the noise shifted, focused. A hundred conversations became fifty became ten became one.
"That's him."
"Holy shit, he actually came."
"Bet he can't do it five-on-five."
Coach Williams' whistle cut through the murmur. "Capone! Over here."
Lucifer navigated through the crowd, feeling eyes track his movement. The coach pulled him aside, voice low enough that only they could hear.
"You're already on the team—that one-on-one bought you that. But you still play the final scrimmage. Need to see how you work with others, determine positions, starting lineup. You good with that?"
"Yes."
"Locker room's that way. Grab practice gear from the equipment manager."
The practice jersey was all blue, "SAINTS" printed across the chest in white block letters. The material was that moisture-wicking stuff that always felt slightly wrong against skin. The shorts hung loose to mid-thigh. He kept his own shoes—the Kyries had earned their place.
By the time he returned, the herd had been culled. Two hundred had become one hundred—the obviously delusional and chronically uncoordinated sent home with participation ribbons for their egos. Another round of cuts brought it to forty. Four teams of ten.
The assistant coach, a man built like a retired linebacker, laid out the rules with military precision.
"Four courts, four teams. A through D. Round-robin format. Two quarters, ten minutes each. Clock stops for timeouts, out-of-bounds, fouls. Four timeouts per team. Win your games, earn points. Team with the most points plays one final game. Winners get guaranteed spots. Losers hope they impressed us enough individually." He pointed to the whiteboard. "Find your names, find your teams, find your balls."
Someone snickered at the last part. The assistant coach's glare could have melted steel.
Lucifer found his name under Team A, starting at point guard. His teammates had already gathered at Court 1, a mix of nervous energy and desperate hope.
The center, maybe 6'4", all knees and elbows, introduced himself as Marcus. The shooting guard, Kevin, kept wiping his palms on his shorts. The forwards—twins named Jay and Ray—moved in sync like they shared a brain. The bench players introduced themselves in a blur of names Lucifer immediately forgot.
"Thank fuck you're on our team," Kevin said. "Without you, we're cooked."
"We just need to not fuck up when you pass to us," Marcus added.
Lucifer studied them. Decent fundamentals. Nervous but not paralyzed. They'd do.
"Just run your cuts hard and crash the boards. I'll handle the rest."
Across the court, Team B was warming up. Nine players who looked like every other hopeful, and one who didn't.
Number 23. About six feet, lean build, the kind of muscle that came from playing rather than lifting. His warmup routine was different—purposeful, each movement deliberate. When he dribbled, the ball stayed low, controlled. When he shot, the rotation was perfect, the follow-through consistent.
During one drill, he went between his legs to behind the back to a hesitation crossover, all in one fluid sequence. The ball never bounced higher than his knees.
Their eyes met across the court. Number 23 nodded once, a recognition between predators who'd spotted each other in the wild.
A slow smile spread across Lucifer's face. Not the polite smile he'd perfected for teachers and parents. A real one.
This is gonna be more fun than I thought.
"Positions!" the referee called.
Both teams took the court. Lucifer settled into his stance at the point, weight balanced, eyes tracking everything. Marcus lined up for the jump ball against Team B's center.
The referee held the ball at center court, both centers coiled like springs.
The whistle shrieked.
The ball flew upward.
Both centers left the ground.