Extra Basket-Chapter 83 - 70: White (26)

The soft hum of the air conditioning and the rustle of papers filled the sleek, minimalist office of John White, CEO of White Corporation. Dressed in a pristine navy suit, he sat behind his mahogany desk, meticulously signing off a stack of contracts. The room was a testament to modern luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, and abstract art adorned the walls.​

John glanced up, his piercing blue eyes meeting those of Eric Weck, his long-time assistant and most trusted confidant.

"Still nothing?" John’s voice was calm, but the underlying tension was palpable.

Eric hesitated, then stepped forward, holding a sealed evidence bag. "We found something, sir."

John raised an eyebrow, setting his pen down. "What is it?"

Eric carefully placed the bag on the desk, revealing a small, ornate pin inside. "It’s better if I show you."

John leaned in, examining the pin through the plastic. It was delicate, crafted in the shape of a lily, with intricate engravings and a tiny gemstone at its center.

"It’s a... pin?" John questioned, his brow furrowing.

Eric nodded. "Yes, sir. Do you recognize it?"

John shook his head slowly. "It’s not one of my wife’s. And certainly not something Aiden or Noah would wear."

Eric took a deep breath. "We found it on the road, sir. Near the location where Noah was last seen."

John’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of concern crossing his face. "Are you suggesting this belongs to someone involved in their disappearance?"

"It’s a possibility," Eric replied. "The design is unique. We’ve already started tracing its origin." frёewebηovel.cѳm

John leaned back in his chair, processing the information. "Any leads?"

"Preliminary research indicates it’s handcrafted. Possibly from a local artisan. We’re compiling a list of jewelers and craftsmen in the area who might have made it."

John nodded, his mind racing. "Good. Expand the search radius. Check neighboring towns as well."

"Understood, sir."

John stood, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at the bustling city below. The weight of the situation bore down on him.

"Eric, I want everything possible done to find them. No stone unturned."

Eric approached, placing a reassuring hand on John’s shoulder. "We’ll find them, sir. I promise."

John turned to face him, determination etched into his features. "I won’t rest until my family is safe."

....

Venganza Possession

Zaia — Kaia’s other self — twirled across the half-court line, a wild grin splitting her face.

Silas passed the ball to her cautiously.

"Come on, come on! Let’s dance~!" Zaia chirped, dribbling with chaotic crossovers.

The atmosphere twisted —

no audience, no cheers —

just the echo of sneakers skidding against hardwood and the heavy sound of breathing.

Vin Cruz, trembling, barely upright, called out hoarsely,

"Zaia... hurry... win...!"

Zaia’s bright eyes flicked toward Vin for a moment —

then she laughed again, unsettlingly cheerful.

....

Meanwhile —

Ordinary was already moving into position.

Ethan Albarado barked sharp orders:

"Stay in formation! Cover passing lanes, not the ball!"

Everyone nodded grimly.

Noah White slid into position, body low, arms wide.

He was breathing hard — but differently than before.

There was fire behind his gaze.

A fire that hadn’t been there for a long time.

...

Flashback — 3 Years Ago: Middle School Courts

Noah used to fly.

Not just fast — effortless. Like the ball and the court bent around him.

Crossovers so tight that defenders stumbled backward, reaching for air.

Stepbacks so smooth that even coaches in the stands leaned forward, jaws slack.

A prodigy.

The kind kids pointed at.

The kind parents whispered about.

Coaches fought over him after games, shoving each other just for a chance to talk.

Scouts — real ones — showed up with clipboards and wide smiles.

"He’s the next star, no question."

"He’s got it all. Handles, shooting, IQ—kid’s a lock for varsity by freshman year."

Noah heard it all.

Every compliment a spark, fueling the fire in his chest.

(I’m gonna be somebody.)

(I’m gonna make it.)

And then—

It happened.

One tournament. Quarterfinals.

Crowd loud. Lights bright.

Noah at the top of the key, sizing up the defender.

He feinted right, spun left. Wide open lane.

He exploded upward — thinking of the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras.

Then—

A foot caught.

A body twisted wrong.

Gravity betrayed him.

The landing wasn’t just bad.

It was wrong.

A brutal snap echoed in the gym.

The scream ripped from Noah’s throat before he even hit the hardwood.

For a moment, everything froze.

The ball rolled across the floor, forgotten.

Coaches sprinted. Players stood stunned.

When Noah opened his eyes, blinking back the blur of pain, he saw nothing but the gym ceiling.

(Why can’t I move?)

(Why does it hurt so much?)

Later—

At the hospital, in a room that smelled like antiseptic and sadness, the doctors smiled with grim eyes.

"You’re lucky," they said.

"It could’ve been worse."

"With proper rehab, you might even play again."

Lucky.

Lucky?

(Lucky people don’t cry themselves to sleep.)

(Lucky people don’t lose everything.)

Rehab was a slow, humiliating crawl.

Learning to trust his leg again.

Learning to walk without the fear of collapse.

But when Noah came back to the court — it wasn’t the same.

The cuts that used to slice through defenders were sluggish.

The stepbacks that once froze crowds — now awkward and slow.

Worse than the pain was the hesitation.

Every wrong step, every tiny misplant, sent a jolt of fear — and lightning pain — up his leg.

High school came.

New kids rose.

New names filled the gym.

No one asked about Noah anymore.

He sat at the end of the bench, jersey loose, forgotten.

He clapped when others scored.

He smiled when coaches passed him by.

(They don’t remember.)

(Maybe I don’t either.)

(Maybe the boy who used to fly is gone.)

And somewhere deep down — where even he couldn’t quite reach —

Noah stopped believing, too.

...

Present Day — Hospital Room, 3 Years Later

The hospital room was quiet, save for the hum of the ceiling light and the occasional beep of the monitor beside Aiden’s bed.

Noah sat nearby, arms crossed, eyes distant.

His brother — bandaged — lay propped up against the pillows.

Just like Noah once did.

He was lucky. Not broken. Just torn up — ligaments, pride, maybe a little hope.

Noah didn’t say that out loud.

On a small tray, Aiden twisted the cap off a tube of ointment and dabbed some on the side of his ribs.

He hissed slightly at the sting, but said nothing.

Noah glanced at him.

"You shouldn’t be moving around like that."

Aiden didn’t look back.

"And you shouldn’t still be limping," he shot back.

"But here we are."

Noah’s mouth tightened.

He looked away.

The younger boy kept working in silence for a moment, then squinted at the limp in his

brother’s walk as Noah shifted in the chair.

"What’s up with your knees lately anyway?"

Noah didn’t answer right away.

He leaned forward and pulled something from his backpack. A small, dark glass jar.

He held it up.

"It’s an ointment," Noah said. "Ethan Albarado gave it to me."

Aiden raised an eyebrow.

"The rookie guy? The one who dropped that... Last few days

Noah gave a small nod.

"Yeah. Him."

He set the jar down next to Aiden’s.

It looked different. Older. Homemade almost. The smell was sharp — mint, camphor, something else.

Aiden peered at it.

"What’s in it?"

Noah shrugged.

"Didn’t ask. Just... said it helps. Said he uses it before every game."

Aiden blinked, then smiled — one of those crooked, tired smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes.

"And you believed him?"

Noah looked at his knees. The same knees that had once soared.

The same ones that betrayed him.

He said nothing.

Aiden sighed. Reached for the jar. Scooped out a small dab and handed it to Noah.

"Use it on your knees, dumbass. Trust me."

Noah stared at the jar in his hand.

The texture. The smell.

Something about it felt... different.

(Why do I feel like... this matters?)

(Why does this feel like the first time in years I might actually move without pain?)

He rubbed the ointment between his palms.

It was warm.

Faintly electric.

(Maybe this is nothing.)

(But... maybe it’s a start.)

He bent down. Slowly. Carefully.

And for the first time in three years—

He touched his knees with hope.

....

Back in the Game —

The air tasted like dust and electricity.

Sweat clung to Noah’s skin, but he barely noticed.

Every ounce of focus was locked on Zaia.

She bounced on the balls of her feet, movements sharp, jittery, dangerous.

She wasn’t just fast — she was crazy fast, slicing through defenders like a blade through paper.

But Noah — Noah wasn’t the same broken boy anymore.

He was still a prodigy underneath all the scars and doubts.

And he remembered.

He remembered what it felt like.

Not reacting late.

Not flinching.

Anticipating — like breathing.

Zaia’s eyes narrowed.

She dipped low, her shoulder twitching — a vicious crossover exploding toward the right.

It was the kind of move that sent defenders flying, scrambling, guessing wrong.

But Noah didn’t flinch.

He didn’t bite.

He slid sideways, clean and sharp, his sneakers squealing against the court.

His body stayed tight, balanced — muscles moving before his mind even caught up.

For a split second, Zaia’s confidence cracked.

Her eyes widened, just a flicker.

(Got you.)

Noah lunged forward, hand snapping out with perfect timing.

The ball popped loose — stolen clean, no foul, no mess.

Zaia let out a screech of frustration, stomping the hardwood as Noah ripped the ball away.

From somewhere behind him, Ethan’s voice rang out:

"GO, NOAH! FASTBREAK!"

Noah didn’t think.

He moved.

He sprinted, heart pounding so loud it echoed in his skull.

The court stretched ahead of him — not like a battlefield anymore, but like a runway.

The floor beneath his sneakers didn’t feel like quicksand like it used to.

It felt light.

It felt like wings.

The ball stayed low to the ground, almost glued to his palm, every dribble like a heartbeat.

Silas — bigger, stronger — lunged to cut him off near the free-throw line.

Noah didn’t panic.

He didn’t slow down.

Instead, he spun — tight and perfect — a blur of motion that left Silas grabbing at air.

Two steps.

The rim loomed overhead.

Noah rose —

not hesitating, not second-guessing —

but rising, the way he used to before everything fell apart.

The ball left his fingertips in a smooth arc, kissing the backboard softly.

Time seemed to pause — just for a heartbeat — before it dropped through the net.

SWISH.

The scoreboard blinked:

Ordinary 24 – 22.

The gym erupted into shouts and applause, but Noah barely heard them.

He was already turning, already sprinting back on defense.

Grinning — wide and raw — through the sweat and the tears blurring his vision.

For the first time in years,

he wasn’t surviving.

He wasn’t dragging his broken body across the court just to exist.

He was playing.

Truly playing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Ethan on the sideline.

Ethan didn’t say a word.

Just smirked — that cocky, knowing smirk — and threw him a thumbs up.

Noah wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand.

He couldn’t afford to cry now. Not yet. There was still a game to win.

.....

Meanwhile... In the Control Room

The low hum of machinery filled the underground control room, like a quiet storm trapped inside concrete walls.

Red and green diodes blinked in steady patterns across the metal panels, as if keeping heartbeat for the room itself.

Above, nine monitors lined the walls in a semicircle, surrounding a massive central screen broadcasting the game in crisp detail.

Each smaller monitor displayed different angles: aerial drone footage, close-ups, bench cams — even biometric readings from players.

The air felt heavy, like a fuse waiting to be lit.

In the center of it all sat Greg, slouched slightly in the command chair, fingers tapping the steel armrest, sweat glistening faintly on his forehead.

Monitor 6 flickered.

A man in a gray blazer, relaxed with his arms behind his head, leaned back in his chair.

"Looks like this is the final outcome of your team, Greg..."

Greg didn’t look away from the screen.

His eyes were fixed on Vin Cruz — trembling, unstable — and Ordinary’s counterattack.

Monitor 8 came alive.

Drew, young and cocky, whistled.

"(whistle)... Greg’s team’s gonna get smoked.

Wait... are you in trouble now?"

Greg’s voice was low but sharp.

"No. My team won’t lose.

My team... is strong."

Monitor 1 — the feed linked to an old man in a long chair, half-swallowed in shadow — suddenly cut in.

He was the leader, the oldest and highest-ranking among them.

"You better handle the consequences, Greg...

If you lose... and those kids win...

and this gets out —

all this illegal shit? The blame’s on you.

You let them play.

You made the deal."

Greg’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t respond.

His eyes drifted to Vin Cruz again.

Then to Lucas.

Then to Ethan, sprinting down the court.

Monitor 2, where a blond-haired figure with a mask stared in silence, didn’t speak.

Just watched.

Still as stone.

Judging.

Monitor 5 buzzed to life.

A stern woman in her 50s, hair in a tight bun, glared at her screen.

Her voice was like ice.

"If this leaks, Greg...

I swear I’m going to kill you myself."

Greg stood frozen.

Didn’t blink.

Monitor 7 activated.

A man in his early 30s, easygoing, tried to smooth the growing tension.

"Come on now. Calm down, guys.

We’ve seen worse. Let’s just—"

Monitor 3 cut him off.

A man in his 40s, angry and flushed red, slammed his fist on the desk.

"Calm down?!

This bastard bet everything on these so-called ordinary kids!

He promised to let them go if they win.

And now they’re actually winning?!

Fucking stupid."

Greg’s hands curled into fists on the armrest.

Monitor 4, a woman in her 30s — quiet until now — tapped at a keyboard, data flowing rapidly across her screen.

She was the one maintaining the public scoreboard for the secret viewers.

With a flat voice, she said:

"Here’s the scoreboard."

The numbers blinked onto every screen:

🟥 VENGANZA - 22

🟦 ORDINARY – 24

Monitor 8 (Drew) whistled again.

"Damn.

You’re really screwed, Greg."

Greg’s throat tightened.

But he still didn’t move.

He kept staring at the screen — at those kids who weren’t supposed to be a threat.

The underdogs.

The ones he bet against in his heart, even as he using these kids to show off to these big shots.

And now...

They were winning.

To be continue