The Gang’s Price
Ryn’s gang found them on a Tuesday.
Kael was running a footwork drill on the transit-hub court—barefoot, as always, because he needed the team to feel every hairline crack in the glass. Spin was weaving through a grid of orange cones, his fingers twitching like he was still picking pockets. Mira was practicing pivot turns on her prosthetic, the metal foot scraping a rhythm against the surface. Brick stood at the center, arms crossed, watching the perimeter like a guard dog.
Ryn was at the far end, launching practice balls at a target Kael had spray-painted on the wall. She hit the bullseye four times in a row. Then five. Then six.
“She’s got a death grip on that throw,” Spin said, stopping mid-drill. “You think she’s mad about something?”
Kael didn’t answer. He’d noticed it too. Ryn had been quiet all morning—not her usual sharp-tongued silence, but something heavier. She’d snapped at Mira for asking about breakfast. She’d ignored Brick’s attempt at a fist bump. And when Kael had tried to correct her stance, she’d glared at him like he’d just insulted her mother.
He was about to call a water break when he heard the footsteps.
Not the shuffle of undercity pedestrians or the distant hum of illegal power generators. These were measured. Deliberate. The sound of boots hitting concrete in unison.
Kael turned.
Six men stood at the entrance of the transit hub. They wore matching black jackets with a crimson symbol stitched on the chest—a serpent coiled around a gear. The Serpent Gears. Ryn’s old crew.
The leader was a man in his late twenties with a shaved head and a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. He carried a metal baton, unlit, but the weight of it in his hand was a threat all its own. He smiled when he saw Ryn.
“There she is,” he said. “The little ghost who stole my shipment.”
Ryn’s face went pale. She set down the practice ball and stepped forward, her hands raised. “Ezra. I told you I was out.”
“You told me a lot of things.” Ezra walked onto the court, his boots clicking against the glass. He stopped ten feet from Ryn and tilted his head. “You also told me you’d never touch my stash. But I found your prints on the lockbox, and my product is gone. So either you grew a conscience and flushed it, or you sold it and pocketed the cash.”
“I burned it,” Ryn said. “Every gram. That stuff was killing kids in the Flats.”
Ezra’s smile didn’t waver. “That stuff was paying my rent. You owe me twelve thousand credits.”
Kael stepped between them. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
Ezra’s eyes flicked to Kael, scanning him like a piece of meat. “You the coach I heard about? The washed-up champion?” He laughed. “You look like you haven’t eaten a full meal in a decade.”
“I’ve had worse days.” Kael kept his voice flat. “What do you want?”
“I want my money. Or I want her back to work it off.” Ezra gestured to the men behind him. “We’ve got a job tonight. A warehouse job. Easy in, easy out. She does it, we call it even.”
“No,” Ryn said.
Ezra’s smile vanished. He took a step toward her, and Brick moved—fast for a man his size. He planted himself in front of Ryn, his shoulders blocking her from view. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
Ezra looked up at Brick, then back at Kael. “You’ve got a mute bodyguard. Cute. But I’ve got six men with batons, and I know where you sleep.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket and tossed it at Kael’s feet. “That’s the address of the clinic where you took her last week. The medic’s got a family. Think about that.”
Kael picked up the paper. It was a photo—grainy, taken from a distance—of the back-alley medic’s storefront. The door was open. A woman stood in the doorway, holding a child’s hand.
His stomach dropped.
“You touch them, and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Ezra cut him off. “You’re a drunk with a bad reputation and a team of kids. You’ve got nothing.” He turned to Ryn. “You have until the end of the week. Pay up, or come work it off. Otherwise, I start breaking things you care about.”
He walked off the court, his men falling in behind him. The last one out kicked over a cone, sending it skittering across the glass.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Spin was the first to speak. “We’re dead. We’re so dead. That guy looked like he eats nails for breakfast.”
“Shut up,” Mira said. She was staring at Ryn. “You stole from the Serpent Gears? Are you insane?”
“I did what I had to do.” Ryn’s voice was barely a whisper. She sat down on the court, her legs giving out. “They were selling that stuff to kids. Twelve-year-olds. I couldn’t just let it happen.”
“So you burned it,” Kael said.
“I burned it.” She looked up at him, her eyes wet. “I didn’t think they’d find me. I changed my name, I cut my hair, I stopped going to the old spots. I thought I was safe.”
“You’re never safe in the undercity.” Kael crouched beside her. “But I’m not letting them take you.”
“You can’t stop them. They’ve got enforcers. They’ve got connections. If I don’t pay, they’ll hurt people.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Maybe I should just go. Do the job. Get it over with.”
“No.” Kael’s voice was firm. “You go back to them, you’re never getting out. They’ll use you until you’re dead or in prison. And then they’ll find someone else to replace you.”
“Then what do we do?” Spin asked. His voice cracked. “We can’t fight six guys with batons. We can barely afford dinner.”
Kael stood up. He looked at the photo in his hand—the medic’s family, innocent and unaware. He thought about the tournament. About the Vipers. About the neural dampeners and the deadline and the weight of every mistake he’d ever made.
Then he thought about Ryn. About the way she’d kicked him awake in that gutter. About the fire in her eyes when she’d shown him the court. About the shot she’d made that first day—the one that had made him believe, just for a second, that this team could actually win.
He folded the photo and tucked it into his pocket.
“I’ll handle it.”
Ryn looked up. “How?”
“I’m going to talk to Ezra.”
“He’ll kill you.”
“Maybe.” Kael shrugged. “But I’ve got something he wants more than money.”
He didn’t explain. He just walked off the court, grabbed his jacket from the bench, and headed for the exit.
“Kael!” Ryn called after him. “What are you going to do?”
He didn’t answer.
The Serpent Gears’ headquarters was a repurposed shipping container warehouse in the Flats, a district so deep in the undercity that the smog never cleared. The walls were rusted corrugated steel, and the roof was patched with tarps and prayer. A single light hung above the entrance, buzzing with the frequency of a dying insect.
Kael walked in like he owned the place.
Ezra was sitting at a desk in the back, counting stacks of credits. He looked up when Kael entered, and his eyebrows rose. “You’ve got a death wish, old man.”
“I’ve got an offer.” Kael pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. “You want Ryn to work off her debt. I’m offering a better deal.”
Ezra leaned back. “I’m listening.”
“I train your enforcers.”
A pause. Ezra’s eyes narrowed. “Train them for what?”
“Crystal Clash. You’ve got a crew that plays in the underground leagues, right? I saw your name on the bracket. You’ve got a team in the Undercity Open.”
Ezra’s expression flickered—surprise, then suspicion. “How do you know that?”
“I know everything about this tournament. I’ve been studying the bracket for weeks.” Kael leaned forward. “Your team is good, but they’re not great. They lose in the second round every year because they don’t know how to read the glass. They don’t know how to exploit shatter zones. They don’t know how to move without looking down.”
“And you can teach them?”
“I was a champion. I know every trick, every angle, every weak spot on a glass court. I can turn your enforcers into a team that makes the finals.” Kael paused. “In exchange, Ryn’s debt is cleared. She walks free. No strings.”
Ezra studied him for a long moment. Then he laughed—a low, rumbling sound. “You’re willing to train my guys to save a kid you’ve known for a week? That’s either stupid or noble. I haven’t decided which.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters if you’re planning to screw me over.” Ezra stood up and walked around the desk. He was taller than Kael, broader, and he used every inch of it to loom. “If I agree, and you try to pull something, I’ll break your legs and then go after the girl anyway.”
“I’m not going to pull anything.” Kael met his gaze. “I’m giving you a fair trade. Your team gets better. You get a shot at the prize money. And I get Ryn.”
Ezra was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the buzz of the light and the distant hum of the city.
Then he smiled.
“One condition.”
“Name it.”
“You prove it.” Ezra gestured to the warehouse floor. “One-on-one. You and me. Right now. If you win, I’ll consider your offer. If I win, you walk out of here with nothing, and the girl comes back to work.”
Kael’s jaw tightened. “I’m not a fighter.”
“You don’t have to be.” Ezra picked up a Crystal Clash ball from a nearby crate—a regulation sphere, scuffed and worn. “We play on the court out back. First to five points. No pads, no nets. Just you, me, and the glass.”
Kael looked at the ball. He looked at Ezra’s smirk. He thought about Ryn, about the medic’s family, about the tournament that was slipping through his fingers.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s play.”
The court behind the warehouse was a patchwork of salvaged glass panels, held together with epoxy and hope. It was smaller than regulation—maybe twenty feet by thirty—and the supports beneath it were rusted pipes that groaned with every step.
Ezra tossed Kael the ball. “You get first possession. I’m feeling generous.”
Kael caught it. The surface was rough, worn smooth by years of use. He bounced it once, testing the weight. It felt right. It felt like home.
He stepped onto the court.
The glass creaked under his weight. He tapped it with his toe, listening for the hollow echo that signaled a weak spot. There were three—one near the center, one at the far left corner, and one right where Ezra was standing.
Ezra saw him listening and laughed. “You think I don’t know my own court? I’ve been playing on this thing for five years. I know every crack.”
“Then you know this one.” Kael pointed at the spot beneath Ezra’s feet. “That panel’s going to give if you put too much pressure on it.”
Ezra looked down. For a split second, his weight shifted.
Kael moved.
He drove forward, the ball bouncing ahead of him. Ezra recovered fast, sliding to block, but Kael didn’t go for the shot. He faked left, then cut right, his bare feet finding purchase on the rough glass. He heard the creak of the weak spot as Ezra pivoted, but he didn’t slow down.
He launched the ball from the edge of the court. It arced high, spinning, and slammed into the target on the far wall.
One point.
Ezra’s smile was gone. He grabbed the ball and set up for his turn. “Lucky shot.”
“Sure.” Kael wiped sweat from his brow. “Your serve.”
Ezra was fast. Faster than Kael expected. He moved like a man who’d spent years dodging enforcers and debt collectors, his body low to the ground, his eyes scanning for openings. He drove toward the target, and Kael planted himself in front of him, arms wide.
Ezra faked. Kael didn’t bite.
Ezra faked again. Kael stayed.
Then Ezra threw the ball—not at the target, but at Kael’s face.
Kael ducked. The ball slammed into the glass behind him, and the panel cracked. A spiderweb of fractures spread across the surface, and Kael felt the court shudder.
“That’s a foul,” Kael said.
“There are no fouls in the undercity.” Ezra retrieved the ball and set up again. “You want to play clean, go back to the league.”
He scored on the next shot. Then the next. Then the next.
Four points to one.
Kael’s ribs ached. His lungs burned. He was thirty-four years old, hungover, and out of shape. Ezra was a decade younger and twice as mean.
But Kael had one thing Ezra didn’t: experience.
He’d played on courts that were falling apart. He’d played against players who cheated, who fought dirty, who used every trick in the book. He’d lost a championship because he’d thrown a match, but he’d won a hundred games before that.
He knew how to win when the odds were against him.
Ezra served. Kael let him drive, let him think he was winning. He backed up, step by step, until Ezra was standing on the weak spot near the center of the court.
Then Kael stopped.
“You know,” he said, “I used to think the glass was the enemy. That it was something to be feared. But it’s not. It’s a tool.”
Ezra frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Kael tapped his foot. Once. Twice.
The glass beneath Ezra cracked.
Ezra’s eyes went wide. He tried to jump, but it was too late. The panel gave way, and he dropped through the court, his arms flailing. He hit the ground below with a thud and a curse.
Kael walked to the edge and looked down. Ezra was lying on his back, the wind knocked out of him, the ball still clutched in his hand.
“That’s game,” Kael said. “Five to one.”
Ezra stared up at him. For a long moment, Kael thought he was going to get up and start a real fight.
Then Ezra laughed.
It was a raw, surprised sound, like he hadn’t expected to be entertained. He sat up, rubbing his back, and shook his head. “You’re a bastard, Voss.”
“I know.”
“Fine.” Ezra tossed the ball up to him. “You win. The girl’s debt is cleared. But you’d better make my team good. If they lose in the first round, I’m coming for you.”
Kael caught the ball. “They won’t lose.”
He walked off the court, his bare feet leaving prints on the cracked glass. Behind him, Ezra was still laughing.
When Kael got back to the transit hub, the team was huddled together, waiting. Ryn stood apart from them, her arms crossed, her face pale.
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s done.” Kael tossed her the ball. “You’re free.”
She caught it. Her hands were shaking. “How?”
“I made a deal.” Kael didn’t elaborate. He walked past her, toward the bench, and grabbed his water bottle. “We’ve got practice tomorrow. Same time. Don’t be late.”
Ryn stared at him. For a second, he thought she might cry.
Instead, she threw the ball at the target. It hit dead center.
“I won’t be late,” she said.
Kael almost smiled.
Kael was running a footwork drill on the transit-hub court—barefoot, as always, because he needed the team to feel every hairline crack in the glass. Spin was weaving through a grid of orange cones, his fingers twitching like he was still picking pockets. Mira was practicing pivot turns on her prosthetic, the metal foot scraping a rhythm against the surface. Brick stood at the center, arms crossed, watching the perimeter like a guard dog.
Ryn was at the far end, launching practice balls at a target Kael had spray-painted on the wall. She hit the bullseye four times in a row. Then five. Then six.
“She’s got a death grip on that throw,” Spin said, stopping mid-drill. “You think she’s mad about something?”
Kael didn’t answer. He’d noticed it too. Ryn had been quiet all morning—not her usual sharp-tongued silence, but something heavier. She’d snapped at Mira for asking about breakfast. She’d ignored Brick’s attempt at a fist bump. And when Kael had tried to correct her stance, she’d glared at him like he’d just insulted her mother.
He was about to call a water break when he heard the footsteps.
Not the shuffle of undercity pedestrians or the distant hum of illegal power generators. These were measured. Deliberate. The sound of boots hitting concrete in unison.
Kael turned.
Six men stood at the entrance of the transit hub. They wore matching black jackets with a crimson symbol stitched on the chest—a serpent coiled around a gear. The Serpent Gears. Ryn’s old crew.
The leader was a man in his late twenties with a shaved head and a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. He carried a metal baton, unlit, but the weight of it in his hand was a threat all its own. He smiled when he saw Ryn.
“There she is,” he said. “The little ghost who stole my shipment.”
Ryn’s face went pale. She set down the practice ball and stepped forward, her hands raised. “Ezra. I told you I was out.”
“You told me a lot of things.” Ezra walked onto the court, his boots clicking against the glass. He stopped ten feet from Ryn and tilted his head. “You also told me you’d never touch my stash. But I found your prints on the lockbox, and my product is gone. So either you grew a conscience and flushed it, or you sold it and pocketed the cash.”
“I burned it,” Ryn said. “Every gram. That stuff was killing kids in the Flats.”
Ezra’s smile didn’t waver. “That stuff was paying my rent. You owe me twelve thousand credits.”
Kael stepped between them. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
Ezra’s eyes flicked to Kael, scanning him like a piece of meat. “You the coach I heard about? The washed-up champion?” He laughed. “You look like you haven’t eaten a full meal in a decade.”
“I’ve had worse days.” Kael kept his voice flat. “What do you want?”
“I want my money. Or I want her back to work it off.” Ezra gestured to the men behind him. “We’ve got a job tonight. A warehouse job. Easy in, easy out. She does it, we call it even.”
“No,” Ryn said.
Ezra’s smile vanished. He took a step toward her, and Brick moved—fast for a man his size. He planted himself in front of Ryn, his shoulders blocking her from view. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
Ezra looked up at Brick, then back at Kael. “You’ve got a mute bodyguard. Cute. But I’ve got six men with batons, and I know where you sleep.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket and tossed it at Kael’s feet. “That’s the address of the clinic where you took her last week. The medic’s got a family. Think about that.”
Kael picked up the paper. It was a photo—grainy, taken from a distance—of the back-alley medic’s storefront. The door was open. A woman stood in the doorway, holding a child’s hand.
His stomach dropped.
“You touch them, and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Ezra cut him off. “You’re a drunk with a bad reputation and a team of kids. You’ve got nothing.” He turned to Ryn. “You have until the end of the week. Pay up, or come work it off. Otherwise, I start breaking things you care about.”
He walked off the court, his men falling in behind him. The last one out kicked over a cone, sending it skittering across the glass.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Spin was the first to speak. “We’re dead. We’re so dead. That guy looked like he eats nails for breakfast.”
“Shut up,” Mira said. She was staring at Ryn. “You stole from the Serpent Gears? Are you insane?”
“I did what I had to do.” Ryn’s voice was barely a whisper. She sat down on the court, her legs giving out. “They were selling that stuff to kids. Twelve-year-olds. I couldn’t just let it happen.”
“So you burned it,” Kael said.
“I burned it.” She looked up at him, her eyes wet. “I didn’t think they’d find me. I changed my name, I cut my hair, I stopped going to the old spots. I thought I was safe.”
“You’re never safe in the undercity.” Kael crouched beside her. “But I’m not letting them take you.”
“You can’t stop them. They’ve got enforcers. They’ve got connections. If I don’t pay, they’ll hurt people.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Maybe I should just go. Do the job. Get it over with.”
“No.” Kael’s voice was firm. “You go back to them, you’re never getting out. They’ll use you until you’re dead or in prison. And then they’ll find someone else to replace you.”
“Then what do we do?” Spin asked. His voice cracked. “We can’t fight six guys with batons. We can barely afford dinner.”
Kael stood up. He looked at the photo in his hand—the medic’s family, innocent and unaware. He thought about the tournament. About the Vipers. About the neural dampeners and the deadline and the weight of every mistake he’d ever made.
Then he thought about Ryn. About the way she’d kicked him awake in that gutter. About the fire in her eyes when she’d shown him the court. About the shot she’d made that first day—the one that had made him believe, just for a second, that this team could actually win.
He folded the photo and tucked it into his pocket.
“I’ll handle it.”
Ryn looked up. “How?”
“I’m going to talk to Ezra.”
“He’ll kill you.”
“Maybe.” Kael shrugged. “But I’ve got something he wants more than money.”
He didn’t explain. He just walked off the court, grabbed his jacket from the bench, and headed for the exit.
“Kael!” Ryn called after him. “What are you going to do?”
He didn’t answer.
The Serpent Gears’ headquarters was a repurposed shipping container warehouse in the Flats, a district so deep in the undercity that the smog never cleared. The walls were rusted corrugated steel, and the roof was patched with tarps and prayer. A single light hung above the entrance, buzzing with the frequency of a dying insect.
Kael walked in like he owned the place.
Ezra was sitting at a desk in the back, counting stacks of credits. He looked up when Kael entered, and his eyebrows rose. “You’ve got a death wish, old man.”
“I’ve got an offer.” Kael pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. “You want Ryn to work off her debt. I’m offering a better deal.”
Ezra leaned back. “I’m listening.”
“I train your enforcers.”
A pause. Ezra’s eyes narrowed. “Train them for what?”
“Crystal Clash. You’ve got a crew that plays in the underground leagues, right? I saw your name on the bracket. You’ve got a team in the Undercity Open.”
Ezra’s expression flickered—surprise, then suspicion. “How do you know that?”
“I know everything about this tournament. I’ve been studying the bracket for weeks.” Kael leaned forward. “Your team is good, but they’re not great. They lose in the second round every year because they don’t know how to read the glass. They don’t know how to exploit shatter zones. They don’t know how to move without looking down.”
“And you can teach them?”
“I was a champion. I know every trick, every angle, every weak spot on a glass court. I can turn your enforcers into a team that makes the finals.” Kael paused. “In exchange, Ryn’s debt is cleared. She walks free. No strings.”
Ezra studied him for a long moment. Then he laughed—a low, rumbling sound. “You’re willing to train my guys to save a kid you’ve known for a week? That’s either stupid or noble. I haven’t decided which.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters if you’re planning to screw me over.” Ezra stood up and walked around the desk. He was taller than Kael, broader, and he used every inch of it to loom. “If I agree, and you try to pull something, I’ll break your legs and then go after the girl anyway.”
“I’m not going to pull anything.” Kael met his gaze. “I’m giving you a fair trade. Your team gets better. You get a shot at the prize money. And I get Ryn.”
Ezra was quiet for a long time. The only sound was the buzz of the light and the distant hum of the city.
Then he smiled.
“One condition.”
“Name it.”
“You prove it.” Ezra gestured to the warehouse floor. “One-on-one. You and me. Right now. If you win, I’ll consider your offer. If I win, you walk out of here with nothing, and the girl comes back to work.”
Kael’s jaw tightened. “I’m not a fighter.”
“You don’t have to be.” Ezra picked up a Crystal Clash ball from a nearby crate—a regulation sphere, scuffed and worn. “We play on the court out back. First to five points. No pads, no nets. Just you, me, and the glass.”
Kael looked at the ball. He looked at Ezra’s smirk. He thought about Ryn, about the medic’s family, about the tournament that was slipping through his fingers.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s play.”
The court behind the warehouse was a patchwork of salvaged glass panels, held together with epoxy and hope. It was smaller than regulation—maybe twenty feet by thirty—and the supports beneath it were rusted pipes that groaned with every step.
Ezra tossed Kael the ball. “You get first possession. I’m feeling generous.”
Kael caught it. The surface was rough, worn smooth by years of use. He bounced it once, testing the weight. It felt right. It felt like home.
He stepped onto the court.
The glass creaked under his weight. He tapped it with his toe, listening for the hollow echo that signaled a weak spot. There were three—one near the center, one at the far left corner, and one right where Ezra was standing.
Ezra saw him listening and laughed. “You think I don’t know my own court? I’ve been playing on this thing for five years. I know every crack.”
“Then you know this one.” Kael pointed at the spot beneath Ezra’s feet. “That panel’s going to give if you put too much pressure on it.”
Ezra looked down. For a split second, his weight shifted.
Kael moved.
He drove forward, the ball bouncing ahead of him. Ezra recovered fast, sliding to block, but Kael didn’t go for the shot. He faked left, then cut right, his bare feet finding purchase on the rough glass. He heard the creak of the weak spot as Ezra pivoted, but he didn’t slow down.
He launched the ball from the edge of the court. It arced high, spinning, and slammed into the target on the far wall.
One point.
Ezra’s smile was gone. He grabbed the ball and set up for his turn. “Lucky shot.”
“Sure.” Kael wiped sweat from his brow. “Your serve.”
Ezra was fast. Faster than Kael expected. He moved like a man who’d spent years dodging enforcers and debt collectors, his body low to the ground, his eyes scanning for openings. He drove toward the target, and Kael planted himself in front of him, arms wide.
Ezra faked. Kael didn’t bite.
Ezra faked again. Kael stayed.
Then Ezra threw the ball—not at the target, but at Kael’s face.
Kael ducked. The ball slammed into the glass behind him, and the panel cracked. A spiderweb of fractures spread across the surface, and Kael felt the court shudder.
“That’s a foul,” Kael said.
“There are no fouls in the undercity.” Ezra retrieved the ball and set up again. “You want to play clean, go back to the league.”
He scored on the next shot. Then the next. Then the next.
Four points to one.
Kael’s ribs ached. His lungs burned. He was thirty-four years old, hungover, and out of shape. Ezra was a decade younger and twice as mean.
But Kael had one thing Ezra didn’t: experience.
He’d played on courts that were falling apart. He’d played against players who cheated, who fought dirty, who used every trick in the book. He’d lost a championship because he’d thrown a match, but he’d won a hundred games before that.
He knew how to win when the odds were against him.
Ezra served. Kael let him drive, let him think he was winning. He backed up, step by step, until Ezra was standing on the weak spot near the center of the court.
Then Kael stopped.
“You know,” he said, “I used to think the glass was the enemy. That it was something to be feared. But it’s not. It’s a tool.”
Ezra frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Kael tapped his foot. Once. Twice.
The glass beneath Ezra cracked.
Ezra’s eyes went wide. He tried to jump, but it was too late. The panel gave way, and he dropped through the court, his arms flailing. He hit the ground below with a thud and a curse.
Kael walked to the edge and looked down. Ezra was lying on his back, the wind knocked out of him, the ball still clutched in his hand.
“That’s game,” Kael said. “Five to one.”
Ezra stared up at him. For a long moment, Kael thought he was going to get up and start a real fight.
Then Ezra laughed.
It was a raw, surprised sound, like he hadn’t expected to be entertained. He sat up, rubbing his back, and shook his head. “You’re a bastard, Voss.”
“I know.”
“Fine.” Ezra tossed the ball up to him. “You win. The girl’s debt is cleared. But you’d better make my team good. If they lose in the first round, I’m coming for you.”
Kael caught the ball. “They won’t lose.”
He walked off the court, his bare feet leaving prints on the cracked glass. Behind him, Ezra was still laughing.
When Kael got back to the transit hub, the team was huddled together, waiting. Ryn stood apart from them, her arms crossed, her face pale.
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s done.” Kael tossed her the ball. “You’re free.”
She caught it. Her hands were shaking. “How?”
“I made a deal.” Kael didn’t elaborate. He walked past her, toward the bench, and grabbed his water bottle. “We’ve got practice tomorrow. Same time. Don’t be late.”
Ryn stared at him. For a second, he thought she might cry.
Instead, she threw the ball at the target. It hit dead center.
“I won’t be late,” she said.
Kael almost smiled.