The warehouse court was silent except for the steady bounce of the basketball against the polished hardwood. The overhead lights flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the floor. Brian Moser stood at the top of the key, spinning the ball in his hands, his eyes locked onto the man in front of him.
There was something different about this guy. He wasn't just some street player looking for clout. His stance, his breathing, the way he carried himself—it was all precise, calculated. A professional, maybe. Or something even more than that.
Brian smirked.
— "You sure about this?"
The man nodded, unfazed.
— "First to eleven. No refs. No calls. Just basketball."
Brian exhaled through his nose, his excitement barely contained. No rules meant no holding back.
— "Your ball."
The man checked it to Brian, then dropped into a low defensive stance.
Big mistake.
The second Brian caught it, he moved. A lightning-fast jab step to the left before exploding to the right. His defender reacted instantly, but it didn't matter. Brian was already gone. Two dribbles, and he was at the rim.
He didn't just lay it up—he dunked it. Hard.
The ball smacked against the ground as Brian landed, barely looking at his opponent.
— "1-0."
The man picked up the ball, his expression unchanged. He took it back to the top of the key.
— "Again."
Brian smiled.
This was going to be fun.
---
For the next several minutes, the game was pure chaos.
Brian was relentless, attacking with the kind of speed and power that made defenders quit. He drained deep threes with perfect form, pulled off ankle-breaking crossovers that left his opponent stumbling, and finished at the rim with absurd ease.
But the man wasn't just some random challenger.
He fought back. Hard.
On offense, he was crafty—using his body to create space, relying on hesitation moves that would've worked on anyone else. His jumper was clean, and his footwork was elite. He wasn't scared.
Most people crumbled under Brian's pressure. This guy? He was pushing back.
The score climbed.
8-3.
9-4.
Brian wasn't just winning. He was dominating. But the fact that his opponent had even managed to put points on the board was impressive.
Still, it wasn't enough.
Brian got the ball, took one slow dribble, then looked his defender dead in the eyes.
— "Hope you enjoyed this little game."
Then he moved.
Faster than before.
A lightning-quick crossover sent his opponent reaching. Brian snatched the ball back, stepped behind the arc, and released.
The ball swished through the net.
Game.
Brian exhaled, shaking his head.
— "Not bad. But not good enough."
The man wiped sweat from his forehead, then grinned.
— "I wasn't trying to win."
Brian's smirk faded slightly.
— "Then what the hell were you doing?"
The man grabbed the ball and spun it on his fingertips.
— "Testing something."
Brian crossed his arms.
— "And?"
— "You're everything they say you are. But you already knew that."
Brian narrowed his eyes.
— "Who's 'they'?"
The man tossed him the ball.
— "You'll find out soon enough."
Then he turned and walked toward the exit.
Brian watched him go, his mind racing.
Something was happening. Something bigger than just basketball.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt something close to anticipation.
---
The next morning, Brian's phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
"You passed."
Brian sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes.
"Passed what?"
"The real test starts now. Pack your bags."
A second later, another message popped up.
A flight ticket. First-class. Destination: Los Angeles.
Brian stared at the screen.
This wasn't just some random challenge.
This was something bigger.
And he was ready for it.