Date: June 12, 2021

Location: Montego Bay, Jamaica

Event: Days before the NBA Finals

4:03 PM – Montego Bay AirportThe humid air wrapped around Kyle like a heavy memory as he stepped off the plane. The heat clung to his skin, not unfamiliar, but different now. This wasn't a homecoming—it was a reckoning.

His Kyonic slides hit the tarmac with a deliberate pace. No cameras. No fans. No teammates. Just Ari beside him, wearing dark shades and a simple dress. She wasn't supposed to come. But when she saw him packing, she didn't ask permission.

She just got on the flight.

Kyle's knee was still stiff under the brace hidden beneath his sweats. But he didn't limp. Not here. Not now.

A battered taxi pulled up outside. The driver leaned out the window, staring a little longer than necessary.

"You're the baller, eh? From America?"

Kyle just nodded. "Take me to Stonehill Court."

The driver blinked. "That place still standing?"

4:51 PM – Stonehill CourtThe basketball court looked like something out of time.

Cracked concrete. Bent rim. Faded paint. But the backboard still held firm. And the outline of the three-point arc was barely visible under the grime.

Kyle stepped out of the taxi and took it all in.

"This was where he played," Ari said.

Kyle nodded slowly. "And where he disappeared."

Derrick Wilson. His father.

Ari dug up a photo hidden behind one of his mom's old paintings back in Boston. A grainy image of a tall, wiry guard flying through the air. On the back, it read:

"Derrick Wilson – 1996. The Mirage."

Now Kyle stood where his father once ruled.

5:22 PM – A VisitorThe wind shifted.

An old man limped across the cracked court, cane tapping with every step. He wore a Rucker Park tee, years faded, and a pair of high socks that didn't match.

"You're his boy."

Kyle turned.

"You knew him?"

The man didn't answer right away. Just looked Kyle up and down like sizing up a ghost.

"You got his shoulders," he muttered. "And the way you walk. Even limping, you float."

"I'm not here for compliments."

The old man laughed once, dry and low.

"No. You're here for the truth."

The Story of Derrick WilsonThey sat on a broken bench while Ari leaned against the fence, arms crossed.

"He was the best I ever saw," the man—Coach Lenny—began. "Could've been an NBA All-Star. Easy. But he didn't want that life. Said the league was too clean. Too scripted."

Kyle blinked. "Scripted?"

Coach Lenny nodded. "There were whispers back then. About games being influenced. Not fixed—but nudged. He hated it. Hated the idea that outcomes weren't pure. So he went underground."

"Underground?"

"Private tournaments. Big money. Quiet crowds. No cameras. Just legends and shadows."

Kyle looked down at the journal.

"You ever see this?" he asked, flipping to the Fade 2 Black set.

Lenny leaned in. Smirked.

"He ran that against a squad outta Havana. Beat 'em by 40. They called him The Mirage 'cause he'd vanish mid-possession—then reappear behind you for a steal or a no-look dime."

Kyle's throat tightened. "What happened to him?"

Lenny's eyes dimmed. "He found out something he wasn't supposed to. A rigged championship. A kid they were trying to throw into stardom. Derrick tried to expose it. Next day, he vanished. Just like that."

Kyle sat back, stunned. "And no one looked for him?"

"Oh, they looked. But not the right people."

7:19 PM – The ShackCoach Lenny pointed down a dirt path.

"Last place he was seen. A shack behind the churchyard."

Ari hesitated. "Kyle, are you sure?"

He nodded once. The pain in his leg forgotten.

The shack was rotting. The roof caved in on one side. Inside, Kyle kicked aside a crate—and found a crate of VHS tapes. Old. Molded. But one had his father's name written on the label.

DW – Kingston Final – 1997

There was also a cassette recorder.

And a cassette.

Kyle picked it up. Labeled in the same sharp script.

"For my son. If you ever make it here."

His hands shook as he slipped it into the player.

The static crackled. Then a voice—low, calm, unmistakable.

"If you're hearing this, I didn't make it back."

"They'll try to tell you I quit. That I vanished. Don't believe them."

"The game they feed to the world… that ain't all there is. There's another game underneath. One where money talks louder than talent. I tried to change it. Failed."

"But maybe you won't."

"Use what I left. Make the game yours. Not theirs."

The tape clicked off.

Ari wiped a tear from her cheek.

Kyle stood there. Breath shallow.

He didn't cry.

He didn't scream.

He just whispered:

"I won't disappear."

10:46 PM – Montego Bay RooftopKyle stood overlooking the city. Shirt off. Brace off.

Pain in his leg. Fire in his chest.

Ari sat on a nearby chair, silent.

"I want to build something different," Kyle said finally. "A camp here. A real system. Not just highlight tapes and mixtapes. Real development. Real protection."

"Your mom would've loved that," Ari whispered.

Kyle turned toward her. "So would he."

She nodded.

He looked out at the distant hills.

"They think I'm done."

She smiled. "They're wrong."

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