Omar – The Cousin Who Knows Too MuchOmar always told himself he wanted nothing to do with Derrick Wilson's name. Yet the more he tried to distance himself, the deeper he felt dragged back in.

At his barbershop on Half-Way Tree Road, Omar trimmed a customer's hair while pretending not to notice the two men waiting by the corner. They weren't there for a haircut.

When the customer left, one of them walked in. Dark shades, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the small oscillating fan.

"Evening, Omar," the man said. His tone was polite, but laced with threat. "Word is, your cousin Kyle making noise in town. Asking questions."

Omar kept clipping the next man's fade, though his stomach dropped. "Kyle? He here for ball, man. Ain't nobody business but that."

The man leaned close. "Ball or no ball, some names stay buried. You understand?"

Omar nodded slowly, his jaw tight. He didn't respond.

But later, when the shop closed and he sat alone with his cigarette, Omar muttered to himself: "Derrick… even dead yuh still cause trouble."

Except Omar didn't believe Derrick was dead. Not anymore.

Coach T – Keeper of Old WarsCoach T's limp told a story nobody dared ask about.

That night, after Kyle left the court, Coach T stayed behind. He sat on the old bench, lit a spliff, and watched the moon peek through clouds.

In his youth, he had played alongside Derrick Wilson in local leagues. Derrick wasn't just skilled—he was magnetic. People followed him, trusted him. Until they learned they shouldn't.

Coach T exhaled smoke, his voice low, as if confessing to the wind. "If Kyle keep digging, he goin' find out why I limp. And when he find that truth, him goin' hate Derrick forever."

Because it was Derrick's choices—deals made with men who moved guns through ports, who washed money through Kingston's nightlife—that dragged Coach T into violence. One night, one wrong alley, and a bullet took the strength from his leg.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to expose Derrick. Not to Kyle. Not yet.

"Derrick ain't just a man," Coach T muttered. "He's a storm. And storms don't die. They wait."

Aunt Marva – The Sister Who Remembers Too WellIn Spanish Town, Aunt Marva woke from another nightmare.

She dreamed of Nichola crying at the kitchen table years ago, clutching letters that never came, bills that never stopped. Derrick's shadow lingered even then, though his body was gone.

Marva went to her dresser and opened a small wooden box. Inside were photographs she had sworn never to show Kyle.

One of them was Derrick in 1999, smiling in front of a club with men in sharp suits. Men who weren't locals. Men who looked foreign, dangerous.

She touched the photo with trembling fingers. "If Kyle see this, him life change forever."

Her heart told her Derrick wasn't gone. Her gut told her if Kyle found him, blood would follow.

Kyle – Pulled Into the GravityKyle spent the next morning training at the YMCA gym, trying to drown his thoughts in sweat. Every dribble, every dunk, every rep felt heavier than usual.

But his mind wouldn't let him rest.

The voice on the phone. Omar's tension. Coach T's riddles. Aunt Marva's silence.

It was like everyone was holding pieces of Derrick Wilson's puzzle, and Kyle was the only one trying to see the full picture.

As he left the gym, a folded slip of paper slid from his duffel bag. Kyle froze. He hadn't put it there.

It read:

"New Kingston. Midnight. Come alone."

The ShadowAt midnight, Kyle arrived at the edge of New Kingston. The streets were quieter than usual, but not safe. The air buzzed with tension.

He followed the note's instructions into an abandoned car park, his footsteps echoing against concrete.

Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a cap low over his face.

Kyle's heart stopped.

The man spoke. His voice was gravel, old but sharp.

"You really don't give up, do you?"

Kyle's breath caught in his throat. "...Dad?"

The man lifted his head, just enough for the dim light to catch his eyes.

It was Derrick Wilson. Alive.

And smiling.

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