Extra Basket-Chapter 81 - 68: White (24)

1:40 minutes left – 3rd Quarter.

The court was a battlefield now.

Vin, a twisted shadow of his former self, barreled forward —

white-eyed, breath like smoke pouring from his mouth, the ball a mere blur in his hands.

Every step he took cracked the tension in the underground gym even tighter.

Louie tightened his stance, gritting his teeth.

"IM ALSO HERE MONSTER!!" he barked, throwing his arms wide, trying to wall off the charging monster.

But Vin didn’t slow down.

If anything, he accelerated — faster, heavier, like a freight train off the rails.

Ethan watched it unfold, pulse thundering in his ears.

"Vin... Lucas..."

His mind raced. His plan—

the one he crafted to save them—

was hanging by a thread.

And then—

Lucas moved.

A flash.

Allen Iverson’s legendary speed surged through Lucas’ veins, amplified by sheer will.

He blurred past Noah, slipping between the cracks of Vin’s advance like a knife of pure intent.

Vin, locked in tunnel vision, barely registered Louie lunging desperately to slow him—

only for Lucas to arrive.

"NOT ON MY WATCH!!!" Lucas roared, his voice ripping through the underground arena.

Time slowed.

Vin’s pupils, even washed-out by the drug’s corruption, twitched at the new threat.

But his body —

ravaged and fueled by the third pill —

couldn’t fully respond.

Vin forced the ball forward, trying to spin past Louie—

but Lucas was already there.

A seismic clash.

Lucas didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t blink.

He threw his whole body into Vin’s path, hands striking the ball cleanly, precision born from hundreds of hours of practice, sacrifice, and pain.

SLAP!!!

The impact echoed like a gunshot.

Vin staggered—

the ball popped free.

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

Vin’s face twisted, pain flashing across the blankness of his white eyes.

The steaming breath leaking from his mouth wavered.

"(It hurts... It hurts so much... What am I doing...?)" Vin’s mind screamed from the inside, clawing against the chemical storm eating him alive.

But it was too late.

The ball ricocheted away—

straight into Ethan’s waiting hands.

Ethan, already crouched low, caught it seamlessly.

Their plan.

Their moment.

Lucas landed, skidding back, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face.

He didn’t even glance at the ball.

He trusted Ethan.

"Now..." Lucas breathed, smiling grimly through the pain.

"Finish it."

Ethan’s yellow-blue gaze hardened.

He didn’t hesitate.

This was the moment they’d risked everything for.

Their counterattack was about to begin.

Ethan look at Vin state... then Ethan thought "(Vin.. He is exhausted, must be the pill.. wait this is my chance)"

Then Ethan’s yellow-blue eyes sharpened, glowing almost predatorily under the arena lights.

His mind burned hotter than his muscles.

His brain wasn’t clouded by chemicals or brute strength.

It was razor sharp.

It was lethal.

He couldn’t beat Vin in raw power. He couldn’t beat Vin in speed. But he could outthink him.

And that’s all he needed.

Ethan’s sneakers squeaked once against the polished wood as he rocketed into motion — not forward.

Sideways.

The unexpected angle threw everyone for a split-second —

even Zeke Monroe, the lockdown defender, hesitated.

That was the first trap.

In that instant of hesitation, Ethan switched hands, a slick wrap-around dribble that drew Zeke’s weight left — only for Ethan to snap the ball right with a violent crossover.

Zeke lunged—too late.

Ethan slipped past him like a knife through silk.

"First one down," Ethan muttered under his breath.

Silas Korrin, the massive center, realized the threat and moved up to close the gap in the paint.

Big man. Slow turn radius. Short reaction window.

Perfect.

Ethan didn’t challenge him head-on.

Instead, he accelerated just enough to bait Silas to overcommit —

then spun viciously just outside Silas’ shoulder reach, brushing by like a ghost.

Silas roared and swung to block—air.

Ethan was already gone.

Two down.

The next threat was the wild card:

Kaia Volt—or rather, her alter ego, Zaia.

The psycho.

Zaia grinned wide, her expression unhinged, hopping in place like a child waiting for candy.

"Let’s play play play!!!" she giggled.

Most players would panic. Most players would stop.

Not Ethan.

He used it.

He wanted it.

Ethan baited her with a body feint —

a fake left so convincing it almost fooled eveyone.

Zaia, driven more by impulse than discipline, bit immediately, lunging like a rabid wolf.

But Ethan wasn’t there.

He was already slicing the other way, the ball flicking through his legs, almost taunting her.

Zaia screamed with laughter, tumbling past him, grabbing at empty air.

Three down.

Now only one stood between him and victory:

Dante Cruz.

The mastermind power forward. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

A vision specialist.

Dante’s eyes burned into Ethan’s movement, analyzing angles, options, tendencies.

He wasn’t going to get tricked by fakes or flash.

No.

To beat him, Ethan needed pure tempo control.

Speed.

Slow.

Explode.

The three-beat rhythm.

Ethan slowed, almost stalled right in front of Dante—

his body language suggesting indecision.

Dante shifted forward aggressively, sensing weakness.

Exactly as planned.

Ethan exploded past him like a goddamn cannon shot, slipping through the narrowest window between Dante’s reaching hands and the closing paint.

BOOM.

Charlotte could only gasp.

Four defenders dismantled.

All within seconds.

Vin —

the monster still heaving smoke in the distance —

could only watch, wide-eyed, as Ethan charged past everyone.

As Ethan rose toward the basket— Vin now caught up and tried to block him

But Ethan...he didn’t go for a normal layup.

He launched an impossible off-hand reverse layup, spinning under the rim, using the backboard as a shield against any desperate late block.

The ball kissed the glass softly—

then dropped clean through the net.

Swish.

The gym erupted.

The scoreboard blinked:

Venganza 22 — Ordinary 19

...

Meanwhile...

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

Facility C, Level 3: Biotech Containment Zone

Class Red—

The highest internal threat level for BAC (Biological Advancement Corporation).

Assigned only when exposure to unknown biotech agents or illicit experimental drugs could lead to extreme behavioral, biological, or neurological mutation.

Inside the sterile glass observation chamber, a scene of chaos was tightly contained.

Athletes — once promising — now reduced to thrashing, drooling, and screaming wrecks, strapped to reinforced gurneys under high-tension restraints.

Romanov Graves stood behind the triple-thick observation panel, arms crossed, his sharp gray eyes narrowing.

His dark business suit contrasted starkly with the sterile, bright clinical light of the facility.

The muffled cries and incoherent howls from inside barely reached him, but the tension was palpable.

Across the room, doctors in Class IV hazmat suits moved with clinical precision, running diagnostics, injecting sedatives, and scanning data feeds that streamed holographically around them.

One of the restrained athletes — Bryce Liang, a prized Southeast Division recruit — thrashed violently against his restraints.

His skin was flushed a sickly red, veins visible like dark rivers under the surface.

Bryce screamed hoarsely, saliva foaming at his mouth:

"PILL! I NEED THAT PILL! GIVE ME THAT PILL!!!"

The doctors didn’t flinch.

They had seen this too often today.

Romanov’s jaw tightened.

He turned sharply to Mira Lang, his executive coordinator, who hovered nearby with a tablet in hand, sweat beading her brow despite the cool room temperature.

"Status," Romanov barked.

Mira flinched slightly but composed herself.

"Ma’am, initial biochemistry reports are still pending," she said. "But early indicators are... concerning."

She flicked her fingers across her tablet.

A 3D projection sprang up between them —

a spinning molecular structure overlaid with ominous red warnings: UNSTABLE – DNA INTEGRITY RISK.

One of the doctors inside the chamber, Dr. Kyler Flicker, the facility’s lead bio-toxicologist, chimed in through the comms.

"Administrator Graves," he said, voice distorted slightly by his helmet filter, "we’ve isolated key data points."

Romanov leaned closer, his voice like cold steel.

"Talk."

Dr. Flicker gestured to the hologram.

"The substance introduced into these athletes’ systems acts as a synthetic neurochemical accelerator — specifically designed to hyperstimulate neuromuscular reflexes and metabolic efficiency beyond normal biological thresholds."

Romanov’s eyes narrowed.

"In English."

Flicker nodded.

"It makes them faster, stronger, more reactive. Temporarily." He hesitated. "But at the cost of catastrophic neural degradation. Their brains are overheating. Literal nerve burnout."

Romanov cursed under his breath.

Another doctor — Dr. Serena Yao, a specialist in genomic stability — stepped into the comm channel.

She pointed to a second projection: neural pathways highlighted in jagged, broken flashes.

"We’re also seeing rapid telomere erosion," she added. "Their cells are aging at an accelerated rate. Days... maybe weeks of exposure could biologically age them years."

Romanov felt a chill run through his spine.

Mira whispered, horrified:

"It’s eating them alive from the inside..."

Inside the chamber, Bryce Liang yanked at his restraints with inhuman strength, the gurney itself creaking.

"PILL! THE PILL!!! I NEED IT!!!" he shrieked, his voice cracking into sobs.

Romanov slammed his hand onto the control panel, silencing the external audio.

He turned to Mira sharply.

"I want full sequencing," he ordered. "Get me the binding agent, the delivery system, everything. Find out where this shit came from. Now."

Mira nodded and sprinted out of the room, barking orders into her comm.

Romanov remained, staring through the glass.

The athletes inside were no longer human competitors.

They were the broken shells of something unnatural.

"(What the hell have we unleashed... and who gave it to them?)" he thought grimly.

...

Time Remaining: 1:00 — 3rd Quarter

The court was suffocating under the pressure.

Every breath, every heartbeat echoed in the roaring silence between plays.

The lights above flickered—barely perceptible—casting long, stretching shadows that made the players look like warriors caught between two worlds.

Sweat dripped down their faces, glistening under the harsh white beams.

The smell of adrenaline and rubber burned the air.

The scoreboard blinked mercilessly:

Venganza 22 — Ordinary 19

Three points.

One possession.

A knife’s edge.

Venganza had the ball.

At the top of the key, Vin Cruz stood still, the ball tucked under his arm, chest rising and falling violently, steam still leaking from his mouth. His white, hollow eyes didn’t blink.

Behind him, his squad assembled like a wolf pack:

Zeke Monroe, the lockdown wing, bouncing lightly on his toes, eyes tracking every twitch.

Dante Cruz, the vision specialist, calmly scanning the floor like a chess grandmaster.

Silas Korrin, the towering center, setting brutal, immovable screens in the paint.

Kaia Volt—or rather, Zaia—the cheerful psycho, grinning madly, ready to blitz from the corner.

Across from them—

Team Ordinary stood their ground.

Noah White, steady, crouched low on defense.

Louie Gee Davas, jaw clenched, muttering under his breath, ready to explode into action.

Ethan Albarado, loose but laser-focused, brain running a thousand miles per hour.

Lucas Graves, rolling his neck, shaking out the tension. He is fucking tired but still fighting.

Evan Cooper, under the basket, his eyes narrowed

It wasn’t just a game anymore.

It was survival.

Referee’s whistle—chirp!

Vin snapped the ball up.

It was like releasing a storm.

Vin dribbled hard with his left, the ball sounding like gunshots on the hardwood.

Zeke flashed a quick cut across the baseline.

Ethan immediately read it.

"Switch!" Ethan barked.

Noah, without hesitation, snapped into a defensive shift, blocking Zeke’s path, while Ethan bumped into Vin’s lane, clogging the drive.

Vin scowled, his perfect plan already fraying at the edges.

Dante slid into position at the wing, signaling with a twitch of his fingers.

Silas moved in for a massive screen to free Vin.

Lucas saw it a half-second early.

He weaved through the screen, tight and low like a snake under barbed wire, sticking on Vin’s hip.

Evan anchored at the rim, guarding against a dump-off to Silas.

Pressure.

Ordinary’s defense wasn’t just reaction—it was a living organism.

Each man moved like a cell inside a bigger machine, a bigger plan.

Vin grit his teeth and faked a drive—

Louie didn’t bite.

He planted himself firmly, hands wide.

"NOW!!" Vin barked.

Zaia exploded off the weak side for a surprise backdoor cut—

but Noah, the quiet sentinel, rotated instantly, blocking the passing lane with mechanical precision.

Vin’s breath grew harsher.

Nothing was working.

Finally, in desperation, he forced a contested pass toward Dante.

And that was the mistake.

Ethan had baited him into it.

Like a spider weaving a web—

The moment the ball left Vin’s fingertips, Ethan sprang forward.

BOOM.

Interception.

Ethan plucked the ball out of the air like he’d seen it coming five minutes ago.

The Ordinary team roared—then fell into a stunned silence.

Ethan didn’t even celebrate.

He turned and sprinted.

Fast.

Deadly.

Efficient.

Louie bolted alongside him.

Noah fanned out wide. Noah thought "(Mom.. Aiden wait for me..)"

Lucas trailed, ready to clean up.

Evan crashed down the opposite lane for the rebound if needed.

It was a perfect fast break.

Ethan approached the three-point line, defenders scrambling back in terror.

He saw Vin, gasping, desperate to catch up.

Zaia chasing from the side.

Dante behind, too slow.

Silas—too heavy, too far.

It was now or never.

Ethan could have pulled up for three.

He could have dished it.

Instead—

he lobbed it up.

A soft, elegant arc.

Right above the rim.

Time slowed.

Louie Gee Davas, fire in his veins, launched into the sky like a missile.

SLAM.

A violent alley-oop.

The rim shook.

The gym erupted.

Venganza 22 — Ordinary 20

...

As Louie landed, chest heaving, he roared.

The energy shifted.

Ordinary wasn’t backing down.

They weren’t ordinary anymore.

They were dangerous.

And Ethan Albarado, the brain behind it all, just smiled coldly.

Vin staggered at midcourt, sweat pouring down his face, rage and confusion battling in his white, empty eyes.

And Ethan?

He didn’t even look tired.

He locked eyes with Vin from across the court.

"Your move." he mouthed silently.

The battlefield was just getting started.

To be continue