The gym smelled like rubber, sweat, and floor cleaned.
Mark stood at the edge of the court, fingers flexing slowly as he watched the ball bounce between hands. The noise was sharp—shoes squeaking, laughter, someone shouting a score that didn't matter yet.
Simon jogged over, bouncing the ball once before handing it to him.
"Relax," Simon said. "Just play. No one's keeping stats."
Mark nodded, though his shoulders stayed tense.
They split into teams quickly. No arguments. No ceremony. Mark ended up at forward without anyone really deciding it—people just drifted, and that's where he was left.
The ball went up.
The first few seconds were chaos. Someone missed a pass. Another guy tripped over his own feet. It was messy, loud, careless.
Then a guard drove toward the rim.
Mark moved.
Not rushed. Not panicked. He crossed the lane in long, controlled strides and jumped. His hand met the ball with a solid thud that echoed louder than it should have.
The ball smacked the backboard and dropped.
The gym went quiet for half a beat.
"Damn," someone muttered.
Simon grinned like he'd just won a bet.
On the next play, Mark caught the ball near the free-throw line. He didn't dribble right away. He looked around, eyes calm, weighing distances like he was measuring terrain.
The defender stepped too close.
Mark drove.
The first step was explosive—clean and sudden. He rose, fingers gripping the rim, and finished with a controlled dunk that rattled the hoop but didn't linger.
He landed softly.
No celebration.
From the sideline, Sam Wade straightened.
As the game went on, people started adjusting around Mark without realizing it. They passed him the ball more. Defenders shifted early. Two guys followed him into the paint like it was instinct.
Mark adapted.
If they crowded him, he passed.
If they hesitated, he attacked.
Once, a defender slammed into him mid-drive. Mark absorbed it, twisted in the air, and still laid the ball in. He didn't even look back at the guy when he landed.
Simon jogged past him, breathless. " that jump wasn't normal, you know that, right?"
Mark didn't answer.
Sam finally stepped onto the court.
The energy changed instantly.
Sam played hard—too hard. He pressed close, jaw tight, shoulder checking Mark whenever he could get away with it.
Mark didn't rise to it.
On one play, Sam drove straight at him, trying to overpower him near the rim.
Mark planted his feet.
The collision knocked Sam back. He hit the floor hard, palms slapping the wood.
A few guys laughed nervously. Someone helped Sam up.
Sam didn't look at Mark.
On the last play, the score was close enough to pretend it mattered. Mark stood beyond the arc, ball in his hands. Two defenders hovered, unsure whether to rush him or cut off the drive.
He stepped back.
The shot was smooth. Clean. Almost gentle.
The ball dropped through the net without touching the rim.
The gym went silent.
Mark handed the ball back and stepped off the court, breathing steady, heart calm.
Simon stared at him like he'd just seen something he couldn't explain.
Across the gym, Iris Hale hadn't looked away once.
Her arms were crossed, expression unreadable—but her eyes were sharp, focused, like she was seeing cracks in something she'd always assumed was solid.
Sam wiped sweat from his face, forcing a crooked smile for the crowd.
But when he looked at Mark, there was something new in his eyes.
Not hatred.
Recognition.
And discomfort.
The gym slowly filled back up with noise, like someone turning the volume knob up again. Laughter returned. Someone complained about teams. Another called for a rematch.
Mark wiped his hands on his pants and headed for the exit.
"Hey."
He stopped.
Sam Wade stood a few feet away, a towel slung over his shoulder, expression carefully neutral. Not friendly. Not hostile. Something in between—like he hadn't decided yet.
"That was a good game," Sam said.
Mark nodded once. "Thanks."
A pause.
Sam glanced back toward the court, then toward the doors, making sure no one was listening too closely.
"My place," he said. "Friday night. Party."
Mark blinked. "I don't—"
"Everyone's coming," Sam cut in. His tone wasn't pushy, just firm. "Seniors. Some juniors. No teachers. Music. Drinks."
Simon appeared beside Mark like he'd been summoned by instinct.
"A party?" Simon said, eyes lighting up. "At your place?"
Sam shot his brother a look. "Yes. At my place."
Then back to Mark.
"You should come," Sam said. "i mean After what you did today… people will expect you there."
Mark hesitated. The word expect sat wrong with him.
"I'll think about it," he said.
Sam studied him for a second longer, then nodded.
"Do that," he replied. "Text Simon. He knows the address."
The moment Mark turned
Mark's stomach dropped.
I can't.
The words echoed in his head immediately.
Its Full moon today. I can't go.
Later that day
Mark was at his locker when someone stopped beside him.
"Nice game today."
He turned.
Iris Hale leaned against the locker next to his, casual, phone in hand like she'd just wandered over out of boredom.
"Thanks," Mark said.
She glanced at him, then back at her screen. "So… island boy."
He stiffened slightly.
"People really stuck with that?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "You disappear for four years and come back built like that, yeah. People notice."
He shrugged. "Happens."
She hummed. "You throw pretty well. Most guys don't have that kind of accuracy."
"I practiced," Mark replied.
"Practiced what?"
He closed his locker. "Hunting."
That made her look up properly this time.
"Hunting?" she repeated. "With what—traps?"
"Spears," Mark said. "Handmade."
She blinked once. Just once.
"Oh," she said lightly. "That explains it."
It doesn't, her mind whispered.
She walked with him as they moved down the hallway.
"So you just… ran around the island throwing spears at animals?" she asked, tone curious, almost amused.
"Pretty much," Mark said. "You miss, you don't eat. Teaches you fast."
She nodded, filing the information away.
Too fast.
They reached the stairs.
"And basketball?" she asked. "You didn't learn that on an island."
Mark hesitated for half a second.
"I ran a lot," he said. "Chased things. Got chased."
She laughed softly. "Sounds healthy."
Predators chase. Prey runs.
She stopped at the top of the stairs while he continued down.
"Well," Iris said, "welcome back to civilization, Mark."
He turned. "Thanks."
She smiled.
Normal. Polite. Nothing strange.
As he walked away, her smile faded.
Something about him tugged at her—an echo she couldn't place. Not danger. Not fear.
Resemblance.
She shook her head, annoyed with herself.
I'm imagining things, she thought.
But her eyes followed him until he disappeared into the crowd.