The dancehall throbbed with bass.

The lights flickered red and green across sweating faces, smoke rising in slow curls from lit spliffs, the air heavy with the perfume of rum and ganja. Inside Club Illusion, one of Kingston's underground staples, Omar Hall sat in a shadowed corner booth, fingers drumming against the sticky tabletop. He had always hated clubs—too loud, too reckless, too many eyes. But tonight wasn't about enjoyment. Tonight was about memory.

And memory, for Omar, was a dangerous thing.

He swirled his glass, watching the cheap white rum slosh. Derrick Wilson. The name never left him. Back in the nineties, Derrick wasn't just a man in Kingston—he was a force. A fixer, a ghost, a man who knew how to bend games, bend people, bend reality itself. Some called him "The Referee," others called him "The Devil's Point Guard." He moved between basketball courts, back-alley dice games, and political fundraisers like water slipping through cracks. Always untouchable. Always in control.

And Omar had been there for all of it.

The bass dropped harder, making the glasses on the bar tremble. Across the room, a group of younger men laughed too loudly, their chains catching the light. They weren't from Omar's era; they didn't know what real fear was. He could tell by how casually they tossed around names, how they cracked jokes with no sense of history.

But then he heard it.

"Kyle Wilson."

The name cut through the smoke like a knife. Omar stiffened. His knuckles tightened around the glass. The boys were talking about the NBA champion, about the kid who had just lifted the trophy in Boston, the kid the whole island was buzzing about. Jamaica's pride.

But to Omar, the name "Wilson" didn't bring pride. It brought ghosts.

Flashback – Kingston, 1998The night smelled like fried plantain and blood. Omar remembered standing in the alley, watching Derrick's broad shoulders vanish into the dark after a game that had gone wrong.

The setup was simple: Derrick had arranged for a "friendly" between two local powerhouses. Money poured into bets—who would win, by how much, how many fouls, even which quarter a fight would break out. Derrick had his hands in all of it.

But that night, someone double-crossed him.

Omar still remembered Derrick's face when he realized. Calm. Too calm. Like a man staring at a chessboard, already seeing twenty moves ahead. He didn't shout. He didn't curse. He just whispered:

"If the game crooked, we bend it back."

By morning, two bookies were missing, a ref's family had fled Kingston, and Derrick's legend grew even darker.

Omar never forgot the sound of the gunshots that followed him home that night. Or the way Derrick handed him a thick envelope, his voice low and steady:

"Hold this. You loyal, you safe. But never think you free."

Present Day – Club IllusionOmar rubbed his forehead, sweat prickling under the heat of memory. Kyle Wilson. The boy didn't even know. Couldn't know. Derrick had vanished before Kyle's rise, disappearing into the fog of history. People whispered he'd been killed, others swore he'd fled to Miami or London. Some claimed he was still alive, hidden deep in the Blue Mountains, waiting.

But Omar knew better. Derrick never disappeared. Derrick planted seeds.

And Kyle? Kyle was one of them.

The laughter across the room swelled again. Omar forced himself to look, really look, at the boys gossiping about the NBA star.

"Yow, mi tell yuh," one of them said, grinning wide. "Kyle Wilson nah just baller, him bloodline heavy. Him father was—"

He stopped himself, lowering his voice. Omar caught the shift. Even these reckless youths knew not to say Derrick's name too loudly.

The past still lingered.

Omar leaned back, chain glinting under the club's strobe. He wasn't supposed to care anymore. He was retired, out of the game, living quietly. But the truth was, Derrick's shadow never left him. And now, with Kyle back in Jamaica for the summer, the shadow was stretching wider.

Flashback – Derrick's RulesOmar remembered the last lesson Derrick ever gave him. They had been sitting in a half-empty gym, a ball bouncing lazily between Derrick's palms. The man's eyes were sharp, his voice low.

"Basketball and life the same, Omar. Everything 'bout leverage. Man bigger than you? You use speed. Man faster? You use weight. Man richer? You use desperation. Every man got weakness. Find it. Exploit it. That's how you fix a game. That's how you fix life."

Omar had nodded then, too young to question. Too eager to please.

But now, decades later, he wondered if Derrick's words had been less about basketball and more about prophecy.

Present Day – The CallOmar's phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number. He hesitated, then answered.

A voice rasped through the static, chilling him instantly.

"Omar. We hear you still breathing. Good. We need a favor."

He froze. The accent was Jamaican, but the tone was colder, older. Men from the past. Men who remembered Derrick.

"The boy. Kyle. He playing games he don't understand. You go talk to him. You tell him his father's debts ain't paid. You tell him blood run deep."

The call ended before Omar could reply.

His throat tightened. He stared at his glass, now warm and untouched.

So it was beginning.

Derrick's sins, bleeding into the next generation.

And Omar, caught once again between silence and survival.

End SceneOmar rose from the booth, sliding his phone into his pocket. The club pulsed around him, but he felt miles away. Outside, Kingston's streets glowed under flickering streetlights, stray dogs weaving between cars, the night heavy with heat.

He whispered to himself, words he hadn't said in years:

"Derrick… what the hell did you leave behind?"

Because Kyle Wilson wasn't just Jamaica's champion. He was Derrick's son.

And that meant the past was coming back—for all of them.

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