Extra Basket-Chapter 103 - 90: Syndicate Arc (13)

South Side Chicago, where basketball hoops were nailed to streetlight poles and boys grew up dribbling through cracked pavement, Charles Freeman was a name that echoed in gymnasiums and alley courts alike.

Tall, quick, and impossibly sharp, Charles wasn’t just good, he was gifted. He had the kind of fluid grace coaches called "natural," but his success wasn’t just talent. It was obsession. He ran wind sprints at dawn, shot free throws until his fingers bled, studied tape like a scientist decoding nature. From the moment he could hold a basketball, Charles Freeman dreamed of going pro. But even back then, there was one shadow always cast across his light: Eddie Carter.

If Charles was the blade, honed and sharp, Eddie was the flame—brilliant, unpredictable, unstoppable. They were born only weeks apart, lived three blocks from each other, and played on opposite courts until they were old enough to wear the same jersey. In high school, they became teammates and rivals.

Together, they led Dunbar High to the state championships. Charles was the disciplined strategist, the floor general. Eddie was the showman, the ace who made the crowd roar. They pushed each other, lifted each other, and slowly, their rivalry became a brotherhood. Off the court, they were inseparable. On the court, they were iron sharpening iron.

But deep down, Charles hated that no matter how hard he worked, Eddie always seemed one step ahead.

In their senior year, it all came to a head. Scouts were in the crowd. Offers from colleges hung in the air like promises. And in the final moments of the state finals, with the game tied and ten seconds left, Charles called the play. He passed the ball to Eddie wide open at the arc. Eddie shot.

He made it.

The crowd erupted. The buzzer screamed. Dunbar won the title.

Everyone praised Eddie Carter. Charles had run the offense, broken the press, played lockdown defense but no one remembered that. They remembered the final shot. The highlight. The star.

It stung. Bad.

But Charles swallowed it down. They both earned scholarships, Eddie went to Kentucky, Charles to Michigan State. The rivalry continued in college. Again and again, Charles fell

short. Every matchup, every tournament, Eddie was just better more athletic, more explosive, more loved.

Then came the pros. Charles was drafted late, bounced between benches. Eddie? Top 5 pick. Rookie of the Year. MVP candidate by year three.

By age 27, Charles was out of the league. A torn meniscus, limited minutes, and a reputation as "the guy who couldn’t get it done" followed him. Eddie, meanwhile, had his jersey retired before turning 35.

That was the day Charles stopped chasing dreams. He went back home, to Chicago, and started coaching. If he couldn’t be the best, maybe he could make the best.

His teams were disciplined. Strong fundamentals. No flair, no ego. He built programs from scratch—winning districts, then regionals. He was offered assistant coaching roles at colleges, but turned them down. He wanted control. He wanted to shape young men in a system where hard work and intelligence, not flash and stardom won games.

Eventually, Charles became Principal Freeman at Crescent Ridge, a magnet school known for turning at-risk kids into college-bound stars. Eddie’s teams were known for creativity, swagger, and grit, traits he encouraged. Charles hated it. Hated how Eddie made the game feel easy. Hated that his way kept working.

And then came Jalen Carter.

Eddie’s son.

In the rust-colored heart of South Side Chicago, where basketball hoops were nailed to streetlight poles and boys grew up dribbling through cracked pavement, Charles Freeman was a name that echoed in gymnasiums and alley courts alike.

Tall, quick, and impossibly sharp, Charles wasn’t just good, he was gifted. He had the kind of fluid grace coaches called "natural," but his success wasn’t just talent. It was obsession. He ran wind sprints at dawn, shot free throws until his fingers bled, studied tape like a scientist decoding nature. From the moment he could hold a basketball, Charles Freeman dreamed of going pro. But even back then, there was one shadow always cast across his light:

Eddie Carter.

If Charles was the blade, honed and sharp, Eddie was the flame brilliant, unpredictable, unstoppable. They were born only weeks apart, lived three blocks from each other, and played on opposite courts until they were old enough to wear the same jersey. In high school, they became teammates and rivals.

Together, they led Dunbar High to the state championships. Charles was the disciplined strategist, the floor general. Eddie was the showman, the ace who made the crowd roar. They pushed each other, lifted each other, and slowly, their rivalry became a brotherhood. Off the court, they were inseparable. On the court, they were iron sharpening iron.

But deep down, Charles hated that no matter how hard he worked, Eddie always seemed one step ahead.

In their senior year, it all came to a head. Scouts were in the crowd. Offers from colleges hung in the air like promises. And in the final moments of the state finals, with the game tied and ten seconds left, Charles called the play. He passed the ball to Eddie—wide open at the arc. Eddie shot.

He made it.

The crowd erupted. The buzzer screamed. Dunbar won the title.

Everyone praised Eddie Carter. Charles had run the offense, broken the press, played lockdown defense—but no one remembered that. They remembered the final shot. The highlight. The star.

It stung. Bad.

But Charles swallowed it down. They both earned scholarships—Eddie went to Kentucky, Charles to Michigan State. The rivalry continued in college. Again and again, Charles fell short. Every matchup, every tournament, Eddie was just better—more athletic, more explosive, more loved.

Then came the pros. Charles was drafted late, bounced between benches. Eddie? Top 5 pick. Rookie of the Year. MVP candidate by year three.

By age 27, Charles was out of the league. A torn meniscus, limited minutes, and a reputation as "the guy who couldn’t get it done" followed him. Eddie, meanwhile, had his jersey retired before turning 35.

That was the day Charles stopped chasing dreams. He went back home, to Chicago, and started coaching. If he couldn’t be the best, maybe he could make the best.

His teams were disciplined. Strong fundamentals. No flair, no ego. He built programs from scratch—winning districts, then regionals. He was offered assistant coaching roles at colleges, but turned them down. He wanted control. He wanted to shape young men in a system where hard work and intelligence—not flash and stardom—won games.

Eventually, Charles became Principal Freeman at Crescent Ridge, a magnet school known for turning at-risk kids into college-bound stars. Eddie’s teams were known for creativity, swagger, and grit—traits he encouraged. Charles hated it. Hated how Eddie made the game feel easy. Hated that his way kept working.

And then came Jalen Carter.

Eddie’s son.

An echo of Eddie’s talent—only sharper, stronger, faster. Watching Jalen dominate middle school leagues, Charles saw history repeating itself. It wasn’t just Eddie anymore. Now the Carter name was a legacy.

And it was crushing him.

He wasn’t just good. He was otherworldly. A prodigy with his father’s fire and a swagger that felt like an echo of old ghosts. Freeman watched Jalen torch his teams three years in a row in the regional tournaments. Every time they matched up, it was a repeat of the old script. The son of Eddie Carter crushing Freeman’s carefully built squads like he was born to do it.

And Jalen always smiled.

Just like his father.

The last time they played, San Diego Troops had their best season ever. Undefeated. Freeman believed—finally, this was the year. His boys were ready. He had trained them to perfection.

But Jalen Carter dropped 43 points, including a step-back three over Freeman’s best defender at the buzzer.

The media didn’t care about Freeman’s coaching. All they remembered was the highlight. History repeated.

Freeman didn’t shake Eddie’s hand after the game. He just walked into the locker room and told his team they weren’t hungry enough.

That was the year something inside him broke.

He stopped believing in the purity of the game. Stopped trusting the system. He began reading into biomechanics, neural feedback, enhanced training regimens. He saw how private schools gave unfair advantages. How talent was born, not earned.

Hard work didn’t win championships.

Talent did.

Eddie did.

Then Two years ago, everything changed.

It was after another crushing playoff loss. Charles sat alone in the gym office, lights off, film still running on the projector. His team had done everything right. Rotations. Defense. Execution. Still, they lost. Still, Jalen Carter danced on the court like the game had been scripted for him.

That’s when the old man walked in.

Pressed black suit. Bald head. Calm eyes like steel. He moved like a man who never rushed — the kind of man who only appeared when something important was about to change.

Charles didn’t look up.

"You’ve done everything right," the man said, stepping into the flickering light. "And still, you lose."

Charles’s jaw clenched. "If you’re a reporter, you can get the hell out."

"I’m not here to gloat." The man’s voice was smooth, steady. "I’m here because I understand. You work harder than everyone else. You build something solid. And still, the system favors the flashy ones. The showmen. The ones like Eddie."

Charles’s eyes flicked up. "You know Eddie?"

"I know his type. And I know your kind, too. Builders. Thinkers. The ones who believe discipline wins games."

Charles didn’t answer. But the old man smiled.

"You ever wonder why it always goes the same way? Why no matter how much you teach, how much you prepare... they always win?"

Charles stood, arms crossed. "What are you selling?"

The man reached into his coat. Pulled out a black card — matte, with a silver symbol: a circle cut by jagged lines, like lightning over a sun.

"I’m offering you truth," the man said. "Basketball stopped being fair a long time ago. Talent? Random. Glory? Bought. The real game isn’t played on the court—it’s played in boardrooms. Behind closed doors. In scouting committees and shoe deals. And we’re tired of it."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "We?"

"There are others like you. Coaches. Analysts. People who believe in control. In building something real. Not this circus. We’re building a new system. One where the outcome can be shaped. Where our players win. Where people like Eddie stop walking away with everything."

Charles’s voice dropped. "So you want to rig the game?"

The man didn’t flinch. "We want to reclaim it."

Silence.

Then the old man leaned closer. "You’ve spent your whole life chasing ghosts. Let me show you how to become one."

He placed the card on the desk. "When you’re ready, call the number on the back".

And just like that, he walked out. No pitch. No pressure. Just a crack in Charles’s world, wide enough to let something dark slip through.

That night, Charles stared at the card for hours.

The next day, he made the call.

....

Three years later.

Greg was dead. The enhancement pill—the one that made Greg players unstoppable, that helped turn a normal person talent into something terrifying—was now Charles’s responsibility. The program couldn’t end. Not when there was so much left to control.

And so Site E was born.

Buried beneath an abandoned military facility, off the record, off the grid.

The room reeked of antiseptic and rusted blood.

Along the far wall, five glass containment tubes stood upright, faintly glowing green. Inside each...

Children.

Hunched. Shackled.

Their small bodies were chained at the ankles and wrists, curled unnaturally as if molded into submission. Each had a thick metallic brace fused into the upper spine, extending

wires up into their necks and skulls. IV tubes pierced their arms. A slow drip of an unknown fluid leaked into them—Compound X-17, a refined version of the drug Greg once gave Eddie.

Their eyes—if open—were dull, empty. Some were unconscious. Others twitched, muscles spasming against restraints as if their bodies were rejecting something no one asked for.

Above each chamber, a digital monitor displayed biometric readings: heart rate, brainwave activity, neural spike responses. Line graphs moved erratically. Occasionally one would flatline for a moment—only to violently jump again as the child convulsed and was stabilized.

Charles watched from behind a reinforced glass wall, clipboard in hand. He looked older now. Gaunter. Sleep-deprived. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, arms covered in faded injection scars—remnants of earlier failures, tests he had run on himself.

He pressed the intercom button. "Subject 04 is still rejecting the strain. Increase neural dampeners by twenty percent. And give him another dose. No more interruptions."

A scientist nearby hesitated. "Sir, he’s twelve. His nervous system can’t take much more."

Charles didn’t blink. "Then he’s not meant to be part of the program."

There was a silence. Then the order was obeyed.

From the far corner, a boy’s scream echoed, muffled by glass. Then it went quiet again.

Charles turned and stared at a single photo taped to the wall.

A black-and-white image of Eddie Carter holding the championship trophy, grinning.

Charles muttered under his breath. "Let’s see you laugh when we breed a player who can end your legacy."

He walked out of the room, the echo of his steps swallowed by steel and silence.

Behind him, the children remained.

Half alive.

Half weapon.

To be continue