Extra Basket-Chapter 64 - 51: White (7)

Time: 10:00 AM

Location: Unknown Underground Facility

The walls were sterile white, the kind that made everything feel too clean... too clinical. A single fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead. Panny White stood across from the masked figure who’d only been known to her as "Sheep."

She held the small black case tightly in her hands. Inside it—those pills. The ones she’d once thought would make everything better.

But now?

"I’ve decided not to give these to my two sons," Panny said, her voice calm but firm. Her knuckles whitened around the case.

The man in the sheep mask tilted his head, like a puppet hung too loosely from its strings.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice smooth—too smooth, like a salesman hiding a blade under every word.

Panny nodded, more slowly this time.

"I’m sure."

Sheep didn’t move for a moment. Then he let out a low chuckle—controlled, polite, and utterly chilling.

"That’s too bad..."

He stepped closer. Not threatening, not fast—just deliberate.

"You were so enthusiastic before. You said you’d do anything for your boys."

Panny swallowed hard. She felt it in her throat like ice.

"I do want what’s best for them," she said, voice wavering now. "But not like this. Not something I can’t trust. Not if it’s going to cost them more than it gives."

Sheep’s head tilted again. His gloved fingers tapped together.

Then, without missing a beat, he said:

"Let me know if you change your mind."

"Doors like these don’t stay open forever, Madam White."

Panny gave a small nod and turned toward the door.

Every step felt heavier than the last.

As her hand touched the knob, she heard his final words behind her:

"Okay, Madam White..."

Then silence. But just before she opened the door, something inside her told her to brace for more.

Behind her, Sheep remained perfectly still. But inside his head, a different kind of thought stirred:

"(You may leave... but you can’t escape our grasp forever. Sooner or later—you’ll come back. They always do.)"

He slowly reached up and removed his mask, revealing the calm, cold smirk of a man who never dealt in losses—only delays.

.....

The room was dimly lit, walls coated in shadows, humming softly with the low buzz of outdated fluorescent bulbs. A single desk lamp flickered in the corner, casting a faint light on a man hunched forward, trembling in frustration.

Greg Tarrow, once a proud businessman, now sat in that darkness like a shell of who he used to be. His hands clenched the armrests of his chair, knuckles pale. Sweat clung to his forehead. His eyes—bloodshot, restless—burned with hatred.

A man in a black suit approached and whispered something into his ear.

Greg’s expression changed instantly.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

The man hesitated. "Panny White... she refused. She’s not giving the pill to her sons."

Silence.

Then—SLAM.

Greg’s fist collided with the wooden table. A glass of whiskey tipped and spilled, shards of broken glass bouncing across the floor.

"FUCK!" he roared, standing up. His breath came out in harsh, uneven rasps. "How dare that bitch ruin this?! I was this close! This close!"

He stared at the wall in front of him, but he wasn’t seeing it. His mind was elsewhere—back in the past, back to that moment his entire world fell apart.

...

FLASHBACK – Five Years Ago

Greg’s company had been thriving. His supplements were known in the local sports world—affordable, reliable, effective. He was building something for his family. His wife, Emma, had even designed the company’s logo. Their daughter, Lemi, just seven at the time, used to draw crayon versions of his products and call them "Daddy’s Power Beans."

Then... the White family launched their line.

Superior. Cheaper. Backed by bigger names. Overnight, Greg’s market crumbled. Clients dropped him. Sponsorships vanished.

The company folded in six months.

Medical bills piled up. Lily got sick. There wasn’t enough left for her treatment.

She died.

Emma never recovered. Two months later, Greg found her in the bathroom—lifeless.

.....

PRESENT

Greg’s voice cracked as he whispered to himself. "You took everything from me, White family... Everything."

His body trembled. But not from grief—from rage.

"This isn’t how it ends," he growled. "That pill was my key. And now she thinks she can just walk away?"

His fingernails dug into his palm. Blood trickled down, unnoticed.

"I will make her regret it. If they won’t take the pill... I’ll make sure they wish they had."

He turned to the man in black.

"Bring those boys.... Cause we proceed to our plan..."

"Tomorrow"

The man nodded.

Greg’s lips curled into a dark, twisted smile.

"If I can’t destroy them through the front door... I’ll burn their fucking house from the inside."

.....

Location: Quiet Suburban Roadway – Near Ridgeview Park

Time: 11:10 AM

Date: July 5, 2010

The sun filtered through the light summer clouds, casting gentle shadows on the pavement. Birds chirped softly in the background. On an otherwise quiet street, two figures walked side by side—Ethan Albarado and Noah White.

Noah had his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. Ethan walked beside him, spinning a basketball with one hand, calm and casual.

After a moment, Noah broke the silence.

"The ointment you gave Aiden... it worked."

Ethan blinked. "You used it too?"

Noah nodded. "Yeah. At first, I thought you scammed him." He gave Ethan a side glance. "But then I saw Aiden’s eyes... that fire in them. The way he believed in you... I couldn’t ignore it."

Ethan grinned. "Whoa, so I passed the trust test?"

"You’re lucky," Noah said with a faint smile. "To have someone believe in you that much... that’s rare."

Ethan shrugged, jokingly. "Guess that’s just my charm as a teammate."

They both chuckled softly. The wind picked up slightly, ruffling their shirts.

"When I used it," Noah continued, his tone quieter now, "my ankle didn’t hurt as much. Even when I jumped too much or did sprints multiple times. If I keep using it for a couple more weeks... I think it’ll fully heal. Like how it was before everything."

Ethan’s expression shifted; his usual smirk replaced with something more earnest. "Of course it will. It’s proven and tested... and it works."

Noah let out a low chuckle, then tilted his head upward, eyes on the open sky.

"I’ll play again," he said.

Ethan looked over. "Huh?"

"Basketball," Noah clarified, still gazing at the sky. "I’ll start again. This time, in high school."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t you say you were in your first year already?"

Noah nodded. "I am. But... I haven’t played since the injury. I was scared. Lost. Didn’t think I’d ever return to the court again. But now... thanks to you—" he turned to face Ethan, "—because of you, I can finally start over."

Ethan blinked, caught off guard for a second.

Noah extended his fist toward Ethan, a small, grateful smile on his face.

"Let’s both do our best, Ethan. On our own paths... but always chasing the same basket."

Ethan smirked, bumping his fist against Noah’s.

"Yeah."

Meanwhile Lucas Graves, holding a bag of snacks in one hand and a cold bottle of water in the other. Right behind him were Louie with two hot dogs and Evan munching on a bag of chips.

Lucas narrowed his eyes, spotting the two familiar figures across the road.

"Oi!" he called out, his tone half-annoyed, half-playful.

"We’re here too, you know."

Ethan looked back, grinning. "Took you long enough. Thought you guys got lost fighting over sauces or something."

Louie raised a plastic cup with pride. "Worth it. Found the last mango iced tea. Victory tastes sweet."

Evan added, "And Lucas bullied his way to the front of the line."

Lucas scoffed. "Tactical positioning. Not bullying. There’s a difference." He tossed a snack bag at Ethan. "Here. Got your usual."

Ethan caught it mid-air. "You’re a real one."

Noah chuckled, watching them with a warm expression. Though he’d only just recently become a part of this crew, something about the way they bickered and joked felt... natural. Real. Like family.

....

Location: BAC U.S. Division – Executive Suite, Imperial Crest, Virginia

Time: 11:45 AM, July 5, 2010

The view from the executive floor of the BAC U.S. training complex stretched far over the lush valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The facility, designed like a high-end research center crossed with a luxury hotel, hummed with controlled energy—athletes, scouts, and data scientists worked in synchrony below.

Inside a glass-encased boardroom at the top of the complex, Romanov Graves, the iron-willed executive director of BAC’s U.S. branch, stood in a sharp, black suit, her silver nameplate catching the soft light.

Romanov’s office was located in Imperial Crest, the exclusive, gated community housing only the elite: world-class coaches, pro athletes, and investors tied to the BAC empire. No press. No outsiders. Just pure ambition and control.

A soft knock at the frosted glass door. Mira Lang, her executive coordinator, entered with a tablet in hand and a slight tremble in her tone.

"Madam Graves... there’s a situation."

Romanov didn’t look up from her schedule.

"Which department?"

"Training floor... Bryce Liang," Mira said, her voice taut.

"He collapsed in Recovery Wing B during cooldown. He’s stable, but... he started seizing. We had to call emergency medics."

That got Romanov’s attention. Her eyes flicked upward, ice-blue and piercing.

"What triggered it?"

Mira hesitated. Then handed the tablet over.

"Better if you see it yourself."

Romanov pressed play. The screen showed Bryce Liang, one of their top Southeast recruits, restrained by two staff members, convulsing violently. His voice—ragged and cracked—was caught by one of the medics’ body cams:

"I NEED that pill! I NEED IT! The one... the one they gave me! The Sheep! He said it’d make me stronger!"

He thrashed again, eyes rolling.

"Faster... I was so close—I saw it—I was gonna be the best! He promised!"

Romanov paused the video. Her voice was razor-sharp.

"Sheep?"

Mira nodded.

"It’s not the first time we’ve heard that... a few minor league players from the third division have said similar things. They mentioned a ’pill,’ and something about ’Sheep’ or ’the Masked One.’ But we thought it was hallucination... until now."

Romanov’s jaw tightened.

"Find out who gave him that pill. Discreetly. Pull all enhancement reports from our intake clinics over the last 90 days. I want biometric logs, visitor entries, trainer interviews. No leaks. Not one goddamn byte."

"And the player?" Mira asked. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Romanov’s voice was colder now.

"Sedate him. Transfer him to Facility C under a medical hold. Label it as dehydration and stress-related collapse for the press. Internally... code it as a ’Class Red Exposure.’"

Mira’s eyes widened. Class Red was BAC’s internal tag for unverified biotech or drug contamination.

Mira nodded quickly.

"Understood, Madam."

As Alicia left the office, Romanov turned back toward the city, her brow furrowed. This wasn’t just about basketball anymore. Someone was tampering with the world she helped build.

Romanov Graves, CEO of BAC and one of the most powerful figures in Asian basketball, whispered to herself "This isn’t just drugs. This is infiltration."

Meanwhile somewhere out there... someone named Ethan was handing out a healing product more powerful than anything BAC had.

......

The room was dimly lit. The flickering overhead lights gave off a cold, metallic hum. Walls lined with monitors showed grainy surveillance feeds, encrypted files, and biometric data. A faint smell of antiseptic and metal lingered in the air.

A dim, cold room with walls padded in thick soundproof insulation. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow over a polished steel table. Cameras in the corners blinked silently—recording everything. In the center of the room stood Akni Baduh, a sharp-eyed, imposing 50-year-old man of Arabic descent. His tailored suit was spotless, but sweat lined his brow. Across from him, seated in a high-backed leather chair, was the man known only as The Sheep—his face concealed once more behind the eerie white sheep mask, now tilted slightly in amusement. The silence was suffocating.

Then, the Sheep spoke—his tone calm, yet thick with menace.

"So... you gave them the drug?"

Akni gave a short nod, licking his lips nervously.

"Yes... it was months ago. Just a small batch for testing—low-profile players. I didn’t think—"

"And it was BAC," the Sheep interrupted, his tone dropping to a dangerous low.

"That’s a high-profile corporation, Baduh. Did you forget our entire operation hinges on discretion?"

Akni shifted. His eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal.

"I thought it would help! They’re global, they have reach. The effects were working at first! But... the seizures weren’t my fault—something must’ve interacted wrong, I—"

SLAM!

Without warning, the Sheep grabbed Akni by the back of the head and smashed his face into the concrete floor. A crack echoed in the room—part concrete, part bone.

Akni groaned, blood running from his nose. Before he could react, the Sheep pulled a sharp ceremonial knife from beneath his coat. The blade shimmered in the low light.

The Sheep crouched beside him, pressing the blade to Akni’s cheek with deliberate slowness.

"You’re a very funny person, Akni." he whispered.

"Pretending to be me. Handing out our secrets. Staining my name in the process. Do you know what happens when a sheep becomes a liability?"

Akni coughed, voice trembling.

"P-please... I swear, I can fix it. I’ll clean everything up. Nothing will link back to us. The media doesn’t know. Romanov is still guessing. I just—"

Then the Sheep leaned in closer. "You better be. You better erase every trace, silence every witness, and restore balance. Because if you don’t..."

He leaned in closer, the mask inches from Akni’s face.

"When a sheep becomes a liability, it turns into a black sheep. And black sheep... eat their own."

He stood, leaving Akni gasping, humiliated, and bleeding on the floor.

"You have three days."

Then the Sheep disappeared into the darkness of the room, leaving Akni alone... and utterly terrified.

To be continue