Extra Basket-Chapter 55 - 42: Lucas’ Dilemma

July 4, 2010 – 6:00 AM

The sun had just begun to rise, casting golden rays over the pristine private court just outside the Graves family estate. The morning air was crisp, the sky a gradient of soft blues and oranges. Birds chirped in harmony with the rhythmic sound of a basketball hitting the polished pavement.

The court they owned wasn’t just any court. It was built by the best, equipped with high-tech sensors, perfect flooring, and even motion-analysis systems. A gift from his mother, Romanov Graves, CEO of the Basketball Asian Company and once a WNBA champion turned empire builder.

Thump... thump... tap...

Lucas Graves, drenched in early morning sweat, pushed his bangs back with a grin. His yellow eyes sparkled beneath the sunlight, even as his body groaned from the constant repetition.

"Again."

Lucas tried to copy Ethan’s crossover, that quick flash of the ball from left to right, followed by a smooth hesitation move that made defenders freeze like they were glitching. Then came the pull-back dribble.

He started with a crossover—a quick left-to-right dribble intended to shake the defender’s balance.

"Clean... but not enough."

Then into a hesitation move (hesi)—a sudden pause, the illusion of a shot to make his imaginary defender flinch.

"Still too stiff..."

Followed by a pull-back dribble, exploding backward off his front foot, trying to create space for a clean jumper.

Lucas sighed, launching the ball toward the hoop. Swish.

He made the shot, but still...

"This isn’t him."

"It’s close... but it’s not Ethan."

He bent over, hands on his knees, panting. Sweat dripped from his chin, hitting the court with a tiny splash.

"No matter how much I refine it... I can’t match the rhythm. The tempo. It’s like his body just reacts differently."

Lucas wasn’t the jealous type. But he was the curious type. And above all—he was the type who wanted to improve, every single day.

His lips curled into a small smile. "Alright, then. If I can’t copy it exactly..."

He straightened up and spun the ball on his fingertip, sunshine glinting off his smile.

"I’ll make it mine."

Lucas began reworking the flow. Rather than strictly copying Ethan’s sequence, he adjusted it to suit his own strengths:

Instead of a traditional crossover, he added a wrap dribble, swinging the ball behind his back in a circular motion to maintain momentum.

He added a fake spin, quickly turning his shoulders one way then bouncing back, giving defenders a false read.

After the pull-back, he integrated a quick-footed stepback, mimicking a rhythm-dance, then elevated into a high-arc jump shot.

Swish.

He grinned, fist-pumping the air.

"Yessss! That’s it! That’s my move now!"

...

What Lucas didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that the way Ethan moved wasn’t just instinct or training. It was enhanced. Each step, each fake, each subtle motion was boosted by the unseen hand of a mysterious system.

A system Lucas had no access to.

But that didn’t matter to him right now.

He bounced the ball again and laughed to himself.

"Man... that guy really inspires me."

His smile never faded, not even for a second.

"I need to master my ability... so that I’m ready the next time we play against stronger opponents."

He glanced up at the sky, full of hope and determination.

"We’re gonna become champions. I just know it."

And so, while the world still slept, Lucas trained with joy in his heart—unaware of the storm that lay ahead, or the impossible gap between him and Ethan.

But if there was one thing about Lucas Graves...

He never stopped hoping, because he never stopped trying.

....

As the early morning breeze ruffled Lucas’s hair as he lined up for another shot, sweat tracing glowing paths down his cheeks. His heart beat to the rhythm of the game, full of energy and joy—

Riiing. Riiing. Riiing.

The sound of his phone cut through the morning stillness like a siren.

Lucas blinked, confused for a moment, then turned toward the bench where his phone was vibrating against the cool metal surface.

He jogged over, wiping his hands on his shorts, and picked it up.

"Hello? Sis?" he answered with a smile, still catching his breath.

But what came next shattered everything.

"Lucas..." her voice trembled. "Father... Father—he’s almost out of breath..."

Lucas’s heart stopped. His smile vanished.

"What? What do you mean?" His voice cracked mid-sentence.

For a moment, the world fell silent around him. The morning breeze stilled. Even the birds seemed to pause.

His sister choked on her words. "The doctor said... it’s critical. He might not make it."

His body froze. His mind ran back to that day.

Three years ago.

The accident.

The flashing lights.

The stillness of the hospital bed.

His father—Roman Graves—the strong, towering figure who once played with him, coached him, laughed with him... reduced to a fragile frame hooked to tubes and wires.

A coma that had stretched like an unending nightmare. One Lucas hoped would break. One he prayed over every single night.

"No... No. No, no, no..." Lucas muttered, panic creeping into every syllable. "I’m coming! Sis—wait for me, I’m coming!"

He ended the call and bolted.

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Lucas rushed up the garden path, taking the steps two at a time. He slammed the front door open and sprinted upstairs. His breath was sharp and ragged, but his mind was focused.

He threw his bedroom door open.

His room was a whirlwind of trophies, jerseys, posters of legends like Kobe Bryant, Michael Jordan, and his own mother—Romanov Graves.

He tore open his closet, grabbed the first hoodie he saw, yanked on some jeans, and slipped on his sneakers like second nature. His duffel bag lay in the corner—half-zipped from yesterday’s training. He grabbed it anyway.

In thirty seconds, Lucas was out the door again, phone in one hand, bag slung over his shoulder, heart hammering against his chest like a war drum.

"Please... please hang in there, Dad..."

As he sprinted out of the house, the morning sun cast golden rays across the empty court.

The basketball sat where he had left it.

Bouncing no more.

Just still.

Like a memory.

Lucas ran down the street, his breath sharp and fast, waving desperately as a yellow taxi turned the corner.

"Taxi!" he shouted, voice strained and urgent.

The driver slowed down, rolling the window halfway. "Where to, kid?"

"St. Mercy Hospital. Fast as you can—please!"

The door swung open. Lucas threw himself into the backseat, heart pounding, hands shaking. The door slammed shut, and the cab peeled off, tires squealing lightly against the pavement.

As the city blurred past the window, Lucas leaned forward, gripping the edge of the front seat.

"Please hang on, Dad... please."

His eyes were wide, filled with fear, but in the depth of that fear — hope still burned.

Even in chaos, Lucas Graves never let go of hoe.

.....

St. Mercy Hospital – Second Floor, Room 1 VIP

Lucas raced down the pristine white hallway, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. His heart beat louder than his footsteps. Every second stretched like eternity. He stopped in front of Room 1 VIP, its gold-plated nameplate shining under the fluorescent light.

His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob.

Click.

The door creaked open.

Inside, the air was cold. Sterile. Heavy.

There, beside the large hospital bed, stood his sister — Charlotte Graves. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her eyes red and swollen from tears. The sterile smell of antiseptic lingered, mixing with the soft beeping of heart monitors and the faint hiss of an oxygen machine.

"Their father, Roman Graves, once a strong basketball star, now lay still in bed, weak and unmoving. A mask covered his face to help him breathe, and tubes and machines surrounded him. His chest slowly rose and fell, like gentle waves on a quiet beach.

Lucas stepped in quietly.

"Sis... how’s Dad?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Charlotte turned her head toward him. Her usual stoic expression — the calm, composed face she wore even when others couldn’t crack.

Tears slid down her cheeks again. She tried to hold them back, but the sight of Lucas... her little brother... broke her composure.

She let the tears fall.

"Lucas... I was so scared..." she whispered, her voice breaking. "I thought... I thought this was it... That I was going to lose him today..."

Lucas walked over, his chest tight, and wrapped his arms around her.

"It’s okay, sis... I’m here. We’ll get through this. Together," he said, holding her tightly.

In that moment, they weren’t the heirs of a basketball empire.

They weren’t the children of champions.

They were just two kids.

Scared. Hurt. Hoping.

The door opened with a soft click and in stepped a man in a white coat — Dr. Keiji Yamamoto, the family physician who had been overseeing their father’s condition for years.

He carried a clipboard, his face neutral but gentle. He removed his glasses slowly before speaking.

"Lucas. Charlotte," he nodded at each of them. "I just finished reviewing your father’s EEG and neurological data."

The siblings looked up at him, eyes wide with worry.

Dr. Keiji continued. "This morning, your father experienced what we refer to as a seizure-like episode. Now, before you panic, let me clarify — this is not uncommon in patients who’ve been in a prolonged coma."

Charlotte wiped her face. "You mean... he’s not..."

"He’s stable," the doctor confirmed, nodding reassuringly. "His vitals are steady, and the seizure did not cause any additional damage. The brainwaves indicate a reactive pattern — which could actually be a sign that his brain is still... fighting. Still responding."

Lucas stepped closer to the bed, staring at his father’s still frame. He reached for his hand — cold, but alive.

"Is there any chance he might... wake up?" he asked, his voice cautious but filled with hope.

Dr. Keiji hesitated — not out of doubt, but out of the weight of honesty.

"There is always a chance," he said gently. "And your father’s condition, while difficult, has been stable for the last year. If his brain continues to show activity like this, we may be able to try neural stimulation therapy again."

Charlotte sniffled, taking a shaky breath. "So, we... we just have to keep waiting?"

Dr. Keiji nodded. "Waiting. Hoping. And being here for him. Your presence matters more than you know."

He turned to leave, placing a reassuring hand on Lucas’s shoulder. "You’re both stronger than most kids your age. He’d be proud."

As the door closed, the room fell into a soft silence again, broken only by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.

Lucas sat beside the bed, still holding his father’s hand. His sunshine smile was gone for now, replaced by quiet resolve.

"You’re still fighting, huh...?" he whispered, voice cracking.

"Then I’ll fight too. For you, for sis, for everything."

Charlotte sat beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

And though the world outside moved forward with the rising sun, time inside that small, cold hospital room stood still.

Yet, deep down, both of them believed...

One day, their father would open his eyes again.

.....

July 4, 2010 – Unknown Location

Time: 2:00 pm

"The Secret Room"

Deep beneath the surface of society, hidden beneath polished buildings and legitimate fronts, a dark meeting unfolded.

The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a large circular table at its center, where seven figures sat in silence. The air was thick with tension, secrets, and the weight of power.

At the head of the table sat a bald old man, his face lined with age, but his eyes sharp like blades honed through decades of manipulation. His fingers tapped lightly on the table. Each tap echoed like a countdown.

To his left, a lean 40-year-old man sat in a sleek black suit, legs crossed, his expression far too casual for the weight of their meeting. His smile, however, was unsettling — the kind that twisted with every word.

To the old man’s right, a 50-year-old woman dressed in sharp crimson red rested her chin on one hand. She radiated calculation, like every word she uttered was a move on a board only she could see.

Next to them sat four more:

A brooding 30-year-old man, eyes narrowed, face pale with disdain.

A sharp-eyed 30-year-old woman, her nails tapping a rhythm against her datapad.

A poised 36-year-old woman, hands gloved, her posture like a coiled serpent.

And a gruff 38-year-old man, scars visible even beneath his suit, voice gravelly and short-tempered.

The bald old man broke the silence with a low voice that cut through the air like ice:

"I’ve received the report... Roman Graves had another episode."

The 30-year-old man was first to speak, his voice dripping with sarcasm and subtle fear.

"Yes, sir. According to the informants, it was a seizure. The medical staff called it natural... but Romanov Graves isn’t stupid. She’s doubled security around his room. All doctors and nurses are from her inner circle."

The 38-year-old man leaned forward, slamming his fist lightly on the table.

"Tsk... that damn woman. Why the hell did she start digging again? She was supposed to move on. What if she connects the dots?"

The 36-year-old woman let out a soft sigh, her eyes glinting behind her glasses.

"If she hadn’t started investigating the coma treatments again, we would’ve had smooth sailing. All operations were running clean."

Silence returned for a beat.

Then the 40-year-old man gave a soft chuckle — elegant, but cold as steel.

"Now, now... let’s erase those negative thoughts, shall we?" he said, a playful menace in his tone. He picked up his sleek communication device and pressed a button.

A metallic sound followed as the heavy door swung open. Two guards in dark tactical gear entered, faces obscured by masks.

"Yes, Master?" one of them asked.

The 40-year-old man smiled wide, like a host preparing for a twisted party.

"Prepare a basketball tournament. The usual... underground location, high stakes. Make the prize pool... tempting. Include betting lines for the gamblers — real money, big returns."

He paused, then added smoothly, "And don’t forget the drugs. Keep the product moving through the players and crowds. The more they crave it, the more they pay."

The guards nodded. "Sir, yes sir." They vanished with the same silence they entered.

The 50-year-old woman raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t it risky now, with BAC monitoring tighter than before?"

The bald old man finally leaned forward, the dim light casting shadows across his face.

"Risk is what makes power valuable. The more danger we swim through, the stronger our grip. Romanov Graves will fall into line soon... or she’ll be buried by the truth."

He looked at each of them, slowly, deliberately.

"Continue the operations. But keep your eyes open. The children are pawns. The parents are shields. But every shield can crack..."

His finger tapped the table once again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

To be continue