July 25, 2021 – Kingston, Jamaica

The night heat in Kingston felt different from the day. During daylight it was oppressive, thick, and smothering. At night, it carried teeth—an edge sharpened by voices echoing from corners, the sound of scooters rattling past, and the faint smell of rum and ganja carried on the breeze.

Kyle sat on the balcony of his cousin Omar's apartment, high above the restless streets. His championship ring rested on the table next to him, reflecting only the dull orange glow of a streetlight. Down below, arguments sparked and fizzled like firecrackers. Dominoes slammed on a table somewhere nearby, each clack hitting harder than the last.

Omar leaned against the rail, smoking. His voice carried weight, like a man who'd seen too much.

"You tink you can just fly in, do charity camps, shoot commercials, and bounce back out?" Omar exhaled smoke through his nose. "Nah, star. Jamaica don't forget. And Jamaica don't forgive. Your name heavy here. Same like Derrick's."

Kyle's jaw tightened. He didn't answer. He couldn't—not yet.

Elsewhere – Spanish Town

A woman named Marsha sat in a cramped living room, the walls covered in peeling blue paint and fading photographs of family members long gone. She rocked slowly in her chair, staring at a small phone screen that had lit up with news of Kyle's return.

"Derrick son," she whispered. "Finally back."

Her neighbor leaned in. "You tink him gonna find out?"

Marsha's eyes watered. She remembered Derrick as a young man—sharp smile, quick hands, the type who could charm his way into your home and leave with your purse if you weren't careful. But she also remembered the violence. The night Nichola Campbell had come crying, begging for help. The night everything shifted.

"If Kyle stay long enough," Marsha said, her voice low, "him gonna dig up bones. And some bones still fresh."

Trench Town – Later That Night

Coach T closed up the community court after the kids had gone home. He was old now, his knees bent with arthritis, but his memory was sharper than ever. He could still see Derrick running these very lines, still hear the rhythm of his sneakers slapping the concrete.

When Kyle had asked about Derrick, Coach T hadn't lied—he hadn't seen him. Not directly. But he knew the patterns. Men like Derrick didn't just disappear. They moved underground, where debts, favors, and shadows defined everything.

Coach T muttered under his breath as he locked the gates. "Boy walking same path and don't even know it. Better pray him don't trip where his father fell."

Downtown Kingston – The Other Side

On the darker end of the city, men gathered in a dimly lit bar. The air smelled of sweat and stale beer. A thick-shouldered man, his skin marked with scars, leaned forward. His voice was gruff, and his words deliberate.

"So the baller boy really back, eh? Fresh off him championship glory."

One of the younger men at the table chuckled nervously. "Everybody talkin' 'bout it. Him on posters, TV, everything."

The scarred man slammed his fist on the table. "And what them don't talk about? His bloodline. Derrick blood. That nuh wash off with no NBA contract."

The room fell silent. They all knew what he meant. Kyle might've become a star abroad, but here in Jamaica, bloodlines tied tighter than shoelaces. His father's shadow was not just a whisper—it was a debt, a history, a warning.

July 26 – Kingston

Kyle sat in the back of a quiet restaurant, nursing a bottle of water, his cap pulled low. Omar sat across from him, impatient.

"Look, cuz. People watching you heavy. Not just fans. Not just the media. Them old names? Them back. Some a dem think you looking for Derrick. Some a dem hope you find him. Some a dem…" Omar paused, lowering his voice. "…some a dem want you gone before you do."

Kyle didn't blink. He wasn't afraid, not exactly. But the weight of Jamaica pressed down on him harder than any playoff game. Back in Boston, he was the hero, the champion, the future face of a franchise. Here, he was just Derrick Wilson's son.

His phone buzzed. Another unlisted number. Same rough accent as before.

"You still digging, boy?" the voice said. "Careful. The dead don't like when you stir them."

The line cut again.

Kyle exhaled slowly, gripping the phone tighter. For the first time since he'd stepped off the plane, he wondered if coming back was a mistake.

But he knew one thing: he wasn't leaving without answers.

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