July 22, 2021 – Kingston, Jamaica

The morning after the cryptic phone call, Kyle sat on the small balcony of his hotel suite, the humid air clinging to him like a second skin. Kingston stirred below—vendors shouting, taxis blaring, the chaotic rhythm of the city as familiar as it was suffocating.

He held his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the call log. Unlisted number. No trace. No way of calling back.

For a man who had just won an NBA championship, the world should've felt open, limitless. Instead, Kyle felt the opposite—hemmed in by shadows, by whispers, by the one name he couldn't escape: Derrick Wilson.

Omar's AngleAcross town, Omar sat in his cousin's old Corolla outside a betting shop. The air smelled of cigarettes and fried chicken grease, men in mesh shirts leaning against walls with folded newspapers hiding their wagers.

Omar wasn't a gambler, but this was where information flowed. His phone buzzed—Kyle again, probably waiting for an update. He ignored it. Some things couldn't be said over the line.

A man shuffled out of the shop, dreadlocks gray at the tips, a scar cutting down his cheek. "Omar," the man rasped, "you still runnin' wid that ball player cousin of yours?"

"Depends who asking," Omar replied carefully.

The man laughed without humor. "Tell him not to dig too deep. The old days still got teeth. Derrick wasn't just a hustler, y'know. He touch things most man don't come back from."

Omar stiffened. "You mean gangs?"

The man's eyes flickered. "Not just gangs. Derrick had… ties. Bigger than this likkle island. Blood ties. Debt ties. Things a championship ring can't buy out."

Before Omar could press, the man melted back into the alley.

Kyle – Family DinnerThat evening, Kyle attended dinner at Aunt Marva's house. It was cramped, hot, loud with cousins and uncles filling every seat, dominoes slamming, kids running through hallways. On the surface, it felt like family.

But the undertone was different. Every question about Boston, about the Celtics, about the shoe brand—beneath it was something else: Does he know where Derrick is?

At one point, Aunt Marva leaned in close, voice low enough only Kyle could hear.

"You remind me of him so much it hurts," she said. "Same height. Same eyes. Same… pride. But don't let it eat you like it ate him."

Kyle froze, fork hovering above rice and peas. "You know where he is?"

Marva shook her head, lips pressing tight. "If I did, I wouldn't say. Not because I don't love you, Kyle. But because loving you means keeping you away from his shadow."

Coach T's StoryLater that night, Kyle found himself back at Trench Town courts. The photoshoot was long over, but Coach T sat on the same crooked bench, smoking, watching a group of teens run half-court.

"You still searching, boy?" Coach T asked without looking at him.

Kyle didn't answer.

Coach T exhaled smoke, his voice carrying the weight of years. "Your father wasn't just a baller who stray. He was sharp. Too sharp. Street sharp. Man like that don't just disappear. They get erased, or they choose to erase themselves."

Kyle sat down beside him. "So which was it?"

Coach T turned his gaze on him, eyes hard. "If you asking me… Derrick Wilson chose exile. But not 'cause he weak. 'Cause he protecting something. Or someone. Maybe you."

Unknown VoiceMeanwhile, across Kingston, a man sat in a dimly lit room, phone in hand. The unlisted number glowed on the screen.

He didn't dial this time. Instead, he stared at an old newspaper clipping pinned to the wall:

"Local Basketball Standout Derrick Wilson Missing After Shootout – 1998"

Below it, a newer headline:

"Boston Celtics' Kyle Wilson Lifts Trophy in NBA Finals"

The man muttered to himself, voice rough, Jamaican accent heavy. "The boy keep diggin'. Just like his father. If he not careful… history go repeat itself."

He turned the phone over in his palm. He wouldn't call again. Not yet.

Kyle – Hotel RoomNear midnight, Kyle lay in bed, but his eyes refused to close.

The voices kept overlapping—Omar's warnings, Aunt Marva's sorrow, Coach T's riddles. And that unlisted call, haunting him.

Derrick Wilson wasn't just a father who walked out. He was a ghost threaded into every street corner, every silence, every sidelong glance.

And now that ghost was reaching for him.

Kyle rolled over, staring at the ceiling. He'd come back to Jamaica to rest. But it was clear now—this trip wasn't about rest. It was about answers.

And Kyle Wilson wasn't leaving without them.

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