Before Ravenwood. Before tournaments. Before reputation… there was just a boy and a basketball court.
The evening sun dipped behind the old community gym, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The court was nearly empty—just one boy, a fading hoop, and a ball that bounced with steady rhythm.
Thump. Thump. Thump…
Ethan Cross, barely eleven back then, wasn't supposed to be here this late.
But once he began, the world around him tended to fade.
His sneakers slid across the ground in smooth, controlled steps. His dribble shifted from slow to fast, fast to slow—an unpredictable dance far too precise for a child his age. He wasn't strong yet, not tall, but his movements carried something different.
A quiet intensity.
A calmness that didn't match his bright, cheerful personality.
A rhythm that belonged to someone much older.
He faked left—smooth.
Shifted right—faster.
Then pulled up for a shot.
Swish.
No hesitation.
No fear.
Just pure instinct.
From the other end of the court, someone watched with arms crossed.
Lucas Cross—his older brother, already the pride of Ravenwood's junior team—stood by the doorway. He'd finished practice an hour earlier, but something made him stay back.
To watch this kid.
His kid brother.
The one who played like he could see things before they happened.
Lucas didn't say anything at first.
He just observed Ethan dribbling again… and there it was:
A moment where Ethan slowed his breathing.
His eyes softened.
The rhythm of the ball steadied into something almost… serene.
Lucas felt a strange chill.
That's not normal… That's something else.
Ethan drove forward again, weaving through imaginary defenders, switching from a pass stance to a shooting stance so quickly it looked effortless. His feet barely made a sound. His expression stayed calm but focused.
Another fake.
Another shift in tempo.
A sudden acceleration—too sudden.
He wasn't fast because he was strong.
He was fast because he understood movement.
He read the invisible game unfolding in his head.
Lucas exhaled slowly.
"...Dual rhythm?" he whispered to himself.
He didn't know the term.
Nobody taught Ethan that.
Some things were simply born inside certain players.
Ethan took his final shot.
The ball arced perfectly—clean, sharp, confident.
Swish.
He turned around, cheerful as ever, only now noticing Lucas.
"Ah! Lucas! I didn't see you there! Did Mom send you to drag me home?" Ethan laughed, rubbing the back of his head.
Lucas smiled faintly, walking toward him.
"I wasn't here to drag you," he said quietly.
"I was watching."
Ethan blinked.
"Watching what?"
Lucas placed a hand on his little brother's head—something he rarely did.
"You," he said. "And… whatever you just did."
Ethan tilted his head. "Did I mess up?"
"No," Lucas replied softly.
"Ethan… you don't even know how good you are, do you?"
The boy just grinned, clueless.
Lucas looked at the ball, then at Ethan.
This wasn't talent built by drills or training schedules.
This was something raw.
Natural.
Something that couldn't be taught.
A prodigy wasn't made.
A prodigy was born.
And Ethan Cross was one.
As they walked home together, Lucas glanced at the court one last time.
One day, he thought,
they'll see it too. The whole world will.
My brother—the calm storm waiting to rise.