The retina scanner blinked red twice before accepting Lucifer's identity.
"Voice confirmation required," the system announced.
"Lucifer Capone."
"Thumbprint."
He pressed his thumb against the pad, wondering if every practice would require this much security clearance. The heavy doors finally parted with a pneumatic hiss.
"Jesus Christ," Rodriguez muttered behind him.
The private training facility made the public gym look like a YMCA. The court itself seemed standard—gleaming hardwood, perfect lighting—but everything else belonged to a different era. Holographic displays hung in the air above each basket, updating in real-time. Mechanical arms extended from the ceiling like spider legs, each holding basketballs with glowing sensors embedded in the leather.
Along the far wall, a row of cylindrical pods hummed with blue light. They looked like standing MRI machines, if MRI machines were designed by someone who'd seen too many sci-fi movies.
"Welcome to the real East View," Mitchell said, already stretching at center court with the other upperclassmen. Three years of varsity had given him ownership of this space. His thick shoulders rolled through their routine, the kind of build that came from loading trucks at 3 AM before school.
Coach Aaron emerged from his office, tablet in hand. "Gather up."
The team formed a semicircle. Lucifer noticed the natural segregation—upperclassmen on one side, underclassmen scattered, the two freshmen unconsciously gravitating toward each other.
"Before we start," Coach said, "let me show you what you're really up against this year."
He swiped his tablet. The overhead lights dimmed. Blue light erupted from hidden projectors, and five translucent figures materialized on the court.
They weren't quite solid, these glowing blue players, but they moved with disturbing precision. One executed a perfect crossover. Another ran through a defensive slide. A third rose for a jumper with textbook form.
"Ghost Training System," Coach explained. "These aren't recordings. They're AI constructs programmed with actual player tendencies from our conference. You'll be seeing a lot of them."
The holograms turned toward the team in unison, as if suddenly aware of their presence. One raised its hand for a high-five that would never connect.
"Starters, you're up first. Show the ghosts how we run Motion."
Mitchell stepped forward immediately, followed by Thompson at center, Brooks and Chen at forward, and Williams at shooting guard. Five upperclassmen. Zero freshmen.
Lucifer remained with the second unit, processing this information. He'd been prepared for politics, but watching Mitchell take the point guard position still stung.
The starters ran their offense against the ghost defense. The holograms reacted to every cut, every screen, adjusting their positioning based on some algorithm Lucifer couldn't decode. When Mitchell drove right, they formed a perfect help rotation. When Brooks posted up, they sent a double team from the weak side.
"Good," Coach called. "Second team, you're up. Same play."
Lucifer took the court with Rodriguez and three sophomores who looked terrified of the technology. The moment he dribbled toward the ghost defense, they shifted, adapted. One ghost pointed at Rodriguez, apparently communicating a switch that shouldn't have been possible for a hologram.
He tried to split two defenders. The gap closed instantly. He spun back, looking for Rodriguez, but another ghost had materialized in the passing lane. The ball slipped through its translucent fingers—a turnover in the system's calculation.
"Again," Coach barked.
They ran it six more times. The ghosts learned, evolved. By the seventh attempt, they were predicting Lucifer's moves before he made them.
"Live runs," Coach announced. "Starters versus second team. Half court. First to seven."
Thompson won the tip, naturally. Mitchell brought the ball up, that veteran confidence in every dribble. He called the play with hand signals Lucifer didn't recognize yet.
"Screen coming," Rodriguez warned.
But knowing didn't help. Thompson's pick arrived like a brick wall with bad intentions. Six-eight, two-forty, with technique refined by three years of varsity ball. The screen caught Lucifer flush in the chest, legal but violent. By the time he fought through—ribs protesting—Mitchell was already at the rim.
"Gotta be tougher than that, freshman," Mitchell said, jogging back.
Next possession. Same play. This time Thompson's screen was lower, catching Lucifer in the hip. The contact sent him sprawling, hardwood burning his palms.
"Get up," Coach ordered. "You think this is hard? Wait until you play Lincoln Catholic. Their center's six-ten."
Lucifer pushed himself up, tasting copper. Thompson was already setting another screen, that slight smile suggesting he enjoyed this part of practice.
The third screen caught him in the ribs again, an elbow disguised as incidental contact. The fourth knocked the wind from his lungs. By the fifth, Lucifer's entire left side felt like tenderized meat.
Starters won 7-2.
"Water break," Coach called. "Two minutes."
Rodriguez limped to the fountain, favoring his right knee where Chen had accidentally-on-purpose landed after a rebound. "This is fucking hazing."
"It's education," Lucifer corrected, though his ribs disagreed.
"Education about what?"
"About how we're not strong enough yet."
When practice resumed, Coach introduced the Wall Drill.
"New this year," he announced. "NCAA's been using it. NBA's interested. You're my guinea pigs."
A holographic wall materialized at half-court, translucent blue and imposing. It started advancing toward the baseline, slow at first. Gaps appeared in the wall—person-sized holes that opened and closed randomly.
"Simple concept," Coach explained. "Dribble through the gaps before the wall reaches you. Each round gets faster, gaps get smaller. School record is eight rounds, set by Marcus Vale last year."
He looked directly at Lucifer. "Yes, Aaron's older brother. Played here before transferring."
That explained some of the animosity.
Rodriguez went first. The wall advanced at walking speed. Gaps appeared every few seconds, large enough to step through casually. He made it through round one easily, round two with effort. Round three, the gaps started moving laterally, sliding left and right. Rodriguez mistimed his approach, and the wall passed through him. The system buzzed failure.
Mitchell stepped up next. The first three rounds were routine for him. Round four introduced gaps at different heights—some at knee level, requiring creative dribbling. Round five, they shrank to barely wider than the ball. Mitchell's handle was solid, professional. He threaded the needle repeatedly.
Round six ended him. The gaps were appearing for half-seconds now, barely enough time to recognize and react. The wall passed through him mid-dribble.
"Six rounds," Coach noted. "Solid."
Thompson managed four. Brooks made five. The sophomores averaged three.
"Capone."
Lucifer stepped to the baseline, ball in hand. Nine years of Nia's training whispered in his muscle memory. She'd made him dribble blindfolded. Through cones while reciting multiplication tables. In the dark while she threw tennis balls at him.
The wall began its advance.
Round one. Walking pace, generous gaps. He strolled through.
Round two. Faster, smaller gaps. Still comfortable.
Round three. The gaps started moving. He tracked them, patient, slipping through at the last moment.
Round four. Multiple height levels. He went under one gap with a low dribble, immediately rose to thread the ball through a head-height opening.
Round five. The gaps shrank to basketball-width. His handle tightened, the ball on a string.
Round six. Half-second openings. He stopped thinking, let instinct guide him.
Round seven. The wall was jogging speed now. Gaps appeared and vanished like blinks. Lucifer's body moved before his brain processed, the ball an extension of his nervous system.
Round eight. Marcus Vale's record. The gaps were barely visible, appearing for milliseconds. Lucifer went low, almost prone, threading the ball through an ankle-height gap while sliding on his hip.
Round nine. The gym went quiet. The wall moved at running speed. Lucifer's hands blurred, sending the ball through gaps that shouldn't have been possible.
Round ten. Gaps at head height now, requiring him to throw the ball through and catch it on the other side.
Round eleven. Multiple gaps simultaneously. He split them, using both hands independently.
Round twelve. The wall was sprinting. Gaps appeared for fractions of fractions of seconds.
Round thirteen. Lucifer saw the pattern in the chaos, some algorithm in the randomness. He threw the ball through a gap that hadn't opened yet, dove through another, caught the ball as the first gap appeared exactly where he'd calculated.
Round fourteen. The system maxed out.
The wall dissolved.
"New school record," the AI announced. "Fourteen rounds. Previous record: Eight rounds."
Nobody spoke. Even Mitchell stared.
"Locker room," Coach finally said. "We're done."
As the team filed out, Coach caught Lucifer's arm.
"That was impressive."
"Thank you."
"But impressive doesn't always win games. Mitchell's my starter. He's earned it. Three years in the system, knows every play, trusts his teammates and they trust him."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because talent without experience is just potential. And potential doesn't win championships."
"When do I get experience if I don't play?"
Coach studied him. "When you're ready. Not when you think you're ready. When I know you're ready."
In the locker room, Lucifer peeled off his practice jersey, cataloging the growing bruise collection on his ribs. Tomorrow would hurt worse.
Mitchell appeared at his locker, expression unreadable.
"The Wall thing was impressive."
"Thanks."
"But this isn't about dribbling through imaginary holes. It's about running an offense, reading defenses, knowing when to shoot and when to pass. That takes years to learn."
"Or weeks, if you're motivated."
Mitchell's jaw tightened. "You think you can learn in weeks what took me three years?"
"I think I already have."
The older player stepped closer, voice dropping. "You don't know shit, freshman. But you'll learn. Every practice, every screen, every 'accidental' elbow. You'll learn that talent isn't enough."
He walked away, then turned back.
"Oh, and Coach already posted the depth chart. You might want to check it."
Lucifer pulled out his phone. The team's internal app showed the official roster.
Starting Point Guard: James Mitchell
Backup Point Guard: Lucifer Capone
Sixth man. At best.
He sat on the bench, ribs aching, processing this reality. All the viral videos, all the natural talent, all of Nia's training—none of it mattered if Coach wouldn't play him.
His phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"Saw the Wall Drill record. Impressive. -J. Martinez, Klutch Sports."
He deleted it without responding. What did agents matter if he couldn't even start for his high school team?
Another message. Mom: "How was practice?"
He typed: "Educational."
Then deleted it and wrote: "Good. Tired."
No point worrying her with the politics, the bruises, the growing certainty that making varsity meant nothing if he spent every game watching from the bench.
But as he stood to leave, one thought kept surfacing: Mitchell was good, experienced, trusted. But he wasn't special. And in basketball, special always wins.
Eventually.