It had been three days since Kyle Wilson received the cryptic text. Three days since his agent whispered the name: Marquis "Red" Valentine. Three days of sleepless nights, twitchy shadows, and a sense that someone—somewhere—was watching him.

Boston no longer felt safe. Too familiar. Too exposed.

So here he was. New York City. Concrete jungle, steel skyline, and millions of strangers who couldn't care less who Kyle Wilson was.

That's exactly what he needed.

Arrival – Penn Station, 1:23 PM

Kyle stepped off the Acela Express wearing a hoodie, cap, and dark shades. Still, a few fans clocked him almost instantly.

"Yo, that's KYLE WILSON!"

He ignored the calls and dipped into a black SUV that was already waiting. The driver didn't speak—just nodded, locked the doors, and drove. It had all been arranged by Rich Foster. Discreet.

The car weaved through Midtown traffic before heading north. Kyle watched the buildings blur past, but his mind was on something else:

His father once walked these streets. Played in underground leagues. Gambled. Fixed games. Made enemies. And somewhere in this sprawling metropolis, the truth waited—hidden in the ruins of that double life.

2:40 PM — Harlem, East 124th Street

The SUV stopped in front of a dilapidated boxing gym wedged between two corner stores. The sign read: Valentine's Grindhouse — its red paint faded and chipped. A time capsule from a different era.

Kyle stepped out slowly.

The summer heat clung to his skin. Harlem pulsed with life, but the gym stood still. Silent. Watchful.

He pushed the door open. A rusty bell jingled overhead.

Inside: dim lights, old leather bags, scarred floors, and men too tough to smile.

At the far end of the room, a man with a silver goatee and shoulders like cinder blocks was pounding a heavy bag in slow, brutal rhythm.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Kyle approached.

"Red?"

The man paused, turned—his eyes narrowing beneath thick, tattooed brows. He wiped his brow with a towel.

"You look like your father," he grunted.

Kyle swallowed. "You knew him?"

"I broke ribs with him. Ate dirt with him. Watched him fix games like a magician."

Red walked to a locker and cracked open a water bottle. "Why you here, Wilson?"

"I need to know who erased him. Why he vanished. Why no one talks about it."

Red studied him carefully. "You sure you want that truth?"

Kyle's voice was low. "I've lived in the shadow of a ghost my whole life. I want the light."

Red let out a long breath. "Alright then. Let's talk."

3:17 PM – Back Office of the Gym

The office was filled with newspaper clippings, old VHS tapes, faded photos of underground streetball legends and forgotten boxers. Red pulled a chair for Kyle, then shut the blinds.

"Your pops was the best guard I ever saw outside the league. Quick, shifty, smooth as silk. But his real talent?" Red smirked bitterly. "Reading people. Reading scenes. He didn't just play the game—he controlled it."

Kyle leaned forward. "The fixing rumors—were they true?"

"Oh, they were true." Red nodded slowly. "But it wasn't just local stuff. He started with low-level high school games. Then semi-pro. Overseas exhibitions. He had a system. Patterns. Codes. The man could walk into a gym and know exactly who would crack first."

Kyle's stomach twisted. "So what went wrong?"

Red went quiet.

"When he wouldn't play ball with a syndicate out of Newark — the Onyx Line — they came after him. Told him to throw a college showcase in D.C. He refused."

Kyle's heart was pounding now.

Red continued. "A week later, he vanished. But not before sending a package to your mother—those tapes. He knew it was coming."

Kyle's throat tightened.

"He told me if anything ever happened, to stay away. But you, kid? You're bringing the past back from the grave."

4:03 PM — Outside the Gym

Kyle walked out with a new weight on his chest. Red had given him more than just a story. He handed him an envelope with a USB drive, a list of names, and one address.

"If you really want to know who erased your dad… this is where you start."

Kyle opened the paper. One line:

ONYX HOLDINGS — Private Event | August 2nd, 2023 | Atlantic City, NJ

Kyle stuffed the paper in his bag and checked his phone. Missed call from Tatum. Two texts from Rich:

"Where are you?"

"You okay?"

He ignored them.

He wasn't okay.

9:12 PM — Hotel Room, Lower East Side

Kyle sat on the edge of his bed, laptop open. The USB drive Red gave him was plugged in. It held audio recordings — secret phone calls, game footage with odd stoppages and betting spikes, even surveillance videos. All pointing to one thing:

Derrick Wilson had stumbled into something bigger than game-fixing.

This wasn't just about dirty money.

This was a system. A network.

College boosters. Referees. Bookies. Even some agents. All tied to Onyx Holdings — a shadow company with no real face, just frontmen and shell businesses.

Kyle's fingers trembled.

He had just stepped into his father's war.

July 18, 2023 — Morning

A knock at the hotel room door.

Kyle approached cautiously. Peered through the peephole.

No one.

He opened the door.

On the floor: a black playing card.

An ace of spades. No message. No contact. Just that.

Kyle picked it up slowly.

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