Extra Basket-Chapter 95 - 82: Syndicate Arc (5)

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Outside, the sky was gray and heavy, the kind of cold that made the walls feel smaller. Rain tapped against the window in slow, uneven beats. Inside, a single desk lamp cast a warm glow over the blanket-wrapped boy hunched in bed, a novel open across his lap.

Jonathan Brandit.

Once a prodigy with boundless energy on the court.

Now a ghost in his own skin, legs paralyzed from the waist down after the accident.

He adjusted his position slowly—mechanically—his thin fingers turning the page of the old basketball novel he’d read a dozen times before. The one that kept him sane. The one she used to read to him.

But she wasn’t here anymore.

So he read it himself.

The turning point Chapter. The rise of Lucas Graves. Eyes scanning line after line, Jonathan paused as he came across something—barely a paragraph, tucked between two major scenes. An almost throwaway mention. freёnovelkiss.com

Lucas heard the news that Jalen Carter had quit basketball entirely. He sat alone in the locker room and muttered, "It’s a shame... he’s talented. I wanted to play with him just once. And I can see it in his eyes—he loves basketball."

Jonathan froze.

(That’s it?)

He reread the lines.

Again.

Again.

(That’s all the author gave him...?)

His fingers tightened around the spine of the book. It wasn’t anger. Not yet. It was something slower. Emptier. Like discovering someone’s name etched into a tombstone you’d never noticed before.

Jalen Carter.

A name never expanded on. No Chapter, no backstory, no closure.

Just forgotten.

(He quit...? Why? What happened? Why didn’t they tell us more?)

Jonathan swallowed hard, throat dry. He stared at the words, unblinking.

(Lucas wanted to play with him. Just once. Like he saw something in him...)

(And now that chance was gone.)

He closed the book slowly, the weight of the story pressing into his chest. There, in the stillness of that hospital-like bedroom, a quiet grief settled in. Not for himself.

But for a character who never got his story.

For someone who walked away from the game while the world moved on without him.

(He was talented. He loved basketball.)

Jonathan looked over at the chair in the corner.

His chair.

(Maybe that’s why it stuck with me. Because I was already starting to understand what it felt like... to be left behind by the game you loved.)

.....

Location: Site E Interior, Mouth of Wilson, Virginia

The inside of Site E felt like a tomb.

Dim, filtered sunlight poured in through cracks in the boarded windows, casting broken lines across the dust-covered floor. Metal pipes snaked along the ceiling, dripping water occasionally with a hollow plink. The air was thick with dampness and the faint stench of mildew.

Ethan and Brandon stepped cautiously into the first chamber—once a pump control room, now long abandoned.

Brandon held his arm over his mouth. "Smells like rot in here..."

"Stay close," Ethan whispered.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a cheap LED flashlight. It flickered for a second before stabilizing, revealing rusted control panels, overturned filing cabinets, and a partially caved-in ceiling in one corner.

As they moved deeper, Brandon’s foot accidentally kicked something—a crumpled security badge.

He picked it up. "BAC...? Isn’t that the company sponsoring national youth training?"

Ethan frowned. "Yeah... but what the hell is their badge doing here?"

Brandon flipped it over. The name had been scratched out.

"Dude," he said, suddenly tense, "this place was used—recently."

They heard something—a soft whirring. Then a click. Metal shifting behind the wall.

Brandon’s eyes widened. "What was that?!"

Ethan motioned to stay low, moving to the side. They pressed against the wall, ears alert. But it was gone.

Nothing.

Just silence... until Ethan spotted something ahead—a cracked door with a glowing red keypad next to it.

He pointed. "That’s new. That door doesn’t belong to an abandoned water plant."

Brandon muttered, "Then what the hell is it?"

Ethan didn’t answer. He was thinking.

(BAC is here? This wasn’t in the novel. Or maybe I forgot this part... No, this is different. This part is off-script.)

As they stepped closer, a faint beep rang out. Someone had accessed the door before.

"Get back!" Ethan pulled Brandon away just in time—

CLANK!

The door hissed slightly... and slid open by itself.

Beyond it, a staircase descended into pure darkness.

Brandon’s voice dropped. "This is bigger than just a water facility..."

Ethan nodded slowly. "This is where they hid everything they didn’t want the public to see."

He looked behind them.

Still no sign of people

(Good... I need a little more time.)

But what neither Ethan nor Brandon realized was this: high above, on a rusted catwalk, a small blinking red light had activated.

A surveillance camera.

And someone, somewhere, had just seen them enter.

....

The room was dim, lit only by a sliver of late-morning sunlight cutting through the cracks in the boarded window. Dust floated in the still air, and the faint sound of birds outside clashed with the oppressive silence inside.

In the corner sat Caleb Carter, 11 years old, knees pulled to his chest. His wrists were bound, but not tightly—just enough to make escape frustrating. He had black curly hair, soft brown skin like his dad’s, and sharp eyes that didn’t match his age. There were no tears now. Just quiet defiance.

The door creaked open.

Mr. Charles Freeman (Principal of San diego) stepped inside, his figure casting a long shadow. He wore a clean gray polo, khakis, and an old whistle still hanging around his neck—as if he couldn’t let go of the "coach" role. His face was carved with years of tension, eyes narrowed with something colder than anger: obsession.

Caleb flinched but didn’t look away.

Charles sat on the edge of a wooden chair across from him.

"You know," he began, voice smooth but brittle, "when I was your age, I used to watch your father play. Eddie Carter. Fast, smart. Too damn good."

Caleb didn’t respond.

Charles leaned forward slightly. "Your dad and I? We were brothers on the court. But he always stole the spotlight. Always the one with the last shot. The MVP. Even when we coached together... he won. I lost. Year after year."

Caleb frowned. "So what? You’re mad ’cause he was better?"

Charles’s lips twitched. "No. I’m mad because he ruined everything. The final year—2009 Middle School Nationals—my son, my team... we could’ve had it all. And who took it from us? Jalen Carter. Your brother."

Caleb looked down.

Charles stood, pacing now, voice rising. "Do you know what it’s like? To build up your dream, only for it to be crushed by the same bloodline again and again? You Carters don’t even realize the damage you leave behind."

He paused.

"That’s why I took you."

Caleb’s head snapped up. "You’re crazy."

Charles chuckled bitterly. "Maybe. But with you gone, Eddie will finally feel it. The loss. The pain. And maybe... just maybe, I’ll get some peace."

Caleb’s voice was quiet but clear: "You’ll never win. My dad will find me."

Charles stopped in his tracks. "Then he better be quick. Because the clock’s ticking."

Then, without another word, Charles exited the room, leaving Caleb alone in the dim light again—heartbeat pounding louder than ever.

..

The stairwell groaned under their weight as Ethan and Brandon descended deeper into the concrete bowels of Site E. The air was cold, metallic, and laced with mildew—the scent of a place long forgotten by the world but still hiding secrets.

A flickering light buzzed above as they stepped into a narrow hallway lined with rusted pipes and broken lockers.

Brandon whispered, "This place gives me the creeps..."

Ethan didn’t respond right away. His eyes scanned the floor. Then he knelt.

"...Rope fibers," he murmured, brushing his fingers against some frayed strands near a scraped patch on the floor. "Someone was dragged here."

Brandon looked closer, eyes narrowing. "These marks... that’s a kid’s shoe print. Small. Not old, either."

They followed the faint trail—scratches in the floor, a scuff on the wall, even a smudge of dried mud shaped like a palm print—until they reached a half-closed steel door. Ethan placed a hand on it.

A breath.

Then he pushed it open.

Inside, the small room was dim and cold. An overturned chair. Bits of rope. And on the ground, a familiar red wristband—tiny and frayed.

"Caleb..." Brandon whispered, heart pounding.

Ethan nodded grimly. "He was here."

But before he could move farther in—

CLANG!

A door slammed shut somewhere behind them.

Then another.

Brandon turned fast. "What was that?!"

Ethan cursed under his breath, backing up. "We’re not alone."

Footsteps echoed. First one pair. Then three. Then more.

Out of the darkness came shadows—men in black coats, moving like trained guards. Some wore street clothes, others tactical boots. All of them had one thing in common: no insignia. No hesitation.

One of them—a taller man with a scar running down his cheek—stepped forward with a short metal baton in his grip.

"Orders are to retrieve them alive," he said calmly to the others. "If they resist, break a few bones. They’ll still walk."

Ethan’s fists clenched.

Brandon muttered, "How many?"

"...Seven. Maybe more."

Brandon’s voice sharpened. "We run?"

Ethan shook his head. "We fight first. Then run."

The first henchman lunged.

Brandon ducked low, tackling him into the wall while Ethan sidestepped another and delivered a sharp kick to the knee. The baton clattered. Another guard rushed in—Ethan caught a fist to the shoulder but returned with an elbow to the ribs.

"Back to the hallway!" Ethan shouted, lungs burning as his sneakers pounded against cracked tile.

Brandon didn’t hesitate—he swung his arm around one of the henchmen chasing them and slammed him into the wall. Another came at him from the left, but Brandon’s shoulder caught the man in the ribs and threw him off balance. With a grunt, he grabbed Ethan’s wrist and yanked.

"Go! Move!"

They tore down the rusted hallway, past busted lockers and faded hazard signs. The metal door at the far end groaned open—and that’s when they saw them.

More figures.

Six. Maybe seven.

All in black, faces masked, moving like shadows with steel pipes and stun batons in hand.

Ethan skidded to a halt, breathing hard. "Blocked!"

"Damn it!" Brandon turned, heart hammering, searching—until he saw it: a low square opening near the ground, its grating cracked and hanging loose behind an old shelf tipped sideways.

"The maintenance shaft!" Brandon pointed. "There!"

Ethan snapped into motion. "Go! I’ll cover!"

Brandon dropped to his knees, yanked the grate loose with a metallic squeal, and started crawling in.

Behind them—

Footsteps. Yells. The clatter of pipes.

Ethan picked up a busted mop handle from the floor, turned around, and faced the advancing group. His knuckles went white around the grip.

He could feel them drawing closer.

Ethan turned for one last look.

More were coming.

And behind them, in the dark...

He swore he saw man’s eyes watching.

...

Near Site E Perimeter – Overgrown Back Trail

The three boys crouched low behind a dense patch of shrubbery, their breaths quiet and eyes sharp. The old water facility loomed ahead, half-swallowed by ivy and rust. Broken fencing marked the edge of the path, leading toward a side service entrance barely visible through the vines.

Lucas held up a hand, signaling Evan and Louie to stay still.

They waited.

Nothing.

Only the whisper of wind through tall grass and the distant cry of a hawk.

Evan whispered, "I still don’t get why we’re doing this without telling them"

Lucas cut him off. "Because Ethan didn’t tell anyone either. That means whatever he’s walking into, it’s bad. Really bad."

Louie was about to reply when—

THUMP.

A distant crash echoed from inside the facility.

Then another.

CLANG. CLANG.

Shouting.

Faint, muffled... but unmistakable.

Lucas shot up slightly. "That’s Brandon’s voice—!"

Evan’s eyes widened. "Wait... and that—Ethan! They’re fighting!"

Louie’s face paled. "Fighting who?!"

Another sound. This time louder. Closer. A body hitting metal.

Lucas’s fists clenched. "We’re out of time."

Louie, eyes fierce.

"Forget sneaking. We go in. Now."

Evan looked unsure. "And if it’s a trap?"

Lucas gave a tight, grim smile. "Then we break it."

They sprinted toward the side entrance, feet pounding the cracked pavement. Lucas yanked a rusted grate off the side wall, revealing an old pipe corridor.

"In here!"

One by one, they slipped inside the dark tunnel—Lucas in the lead, following the echoes of chaos.

Farther in, the fight still raged.

And none of them knew—

It was just the beginning.

To be continue