I glare at my friend as I'm mid-rant about my new build, but Jackson won't let up. He's already called it trash three times, and I'm done playing nice.
"Bro, do you not see the templates? It literally has Jimmy Butler," I say, holding up my phone like it's irrefutable evidence.
Jackson raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Templates don't matter. My build is way better than yours."
He pulls out his phone with a smug look and shows me a screenshot of his stats. He's acting like it's gospel or something. I snatch it from him for a better look, scanning it quickly—and then I see it.
I point straight at the screen. "See? You only have 37 strength. Your build is garbage, bro!"
Jackson snatches the phone back, scowling. "Strength isn't even that important in this meta."
We're full-on debating now, voices getting louder as we walk through the parking lot. People passing by probably think we're arguing about something serious, like politics or money—but no, just virtual basketball avatars.
After a few more back-and-forth jabs, I pause, my stomach growling loud enough to interrupt us.
"I'm starving. Let's go to Cane's," I say, already walking toward my car.
Jackson shrugs. "Bet."
We hop in, the argument temporarily paused by the promise of fried chicken and Texas toast. I pull out of the lot and start driving, still half-distracted by our earlier argument.
"You're still wrong about the build, by the way," Jackson says with a smirk, leaning back in the passenger seat like he just won the debate.
I laugh. "Yeah, yeah. We'll see when you get bodied in the paint."
As we head down the road, the conversation starts to chill, music playing low through the speakers. I'm just about to make a left turn at the light when I see it—just for a second.
Headlights.
Coming fast.
Too fast.
Before I can even register what's happening, everything slows down. My body tenses. My hands grip the wheel, but it's like my brain can't process fast enough. Jackson yells something, but I can't make out the words.
In that split second, my senses spike. Every sound is sharp—the tires screeching, the roar of the engine, the impact that's about to hit.
Then—
Black.