Rafael didn't go to the locker room.
Not yet.
He read the note five more times, turning it in his hands like a riddle carved in stone. It smelled faintly of cologne—cheap, heavy. Tyson's kind. But that was too easy. Too obvious.
He stood in his apartment, the lights off, the city humming outside like it didn't know the storm building in his chest.
"You want me alone," he murmured to the note.
"You want me to come as Eli."
But he wasn't Eli anymore.
He was something colder.
Smarter.
Worse.
2:42 a.m.
He opened his phone.
Surveillance feed from the school gym—hacked, looped. One of his side projects, months in the making. He didn't trust anyone's memory but his own.
The locker room was dark. Empty.
For now.
He rewound the feed.
Stopped.
At 1:03 a.m., the camera twitched. A flicker. Barely half a second, but enough.
A figure walked past the lockers.
Broad shoulders. Hoodie. Familiar gait.
Tyson.
No mask.
No attempt to hide.
Which meant…
He wanted Rafael to see him.
He was playing a deeper game now.
Flashback – Weeks Ago
Rafael sat at the edge of the old stadium bench, watching the team celebrate a 3–1 win. The crowd was roaring. Reporters circled like vultures with microphones. Flashbulbs. Praise.
Tyson had his arms around Marco and Jude, laughing like a man with nothing to fear.
That was the moment Rafael knew what fear he needed to teach them.
Not punishment. Not death.
But doubt.
Present – Rafael's Apartment
He stood from the desk and reached under the floorboard, pulling out an envelope. Inside were five photos.
One for each teammate involved.
The last one was Tyson's.
He placed it on the table.
Then he picked up a red marker and slowly circled Tyson's face.
"You made this personal," he whispered.
"Now it's surgical."
He texted someone from a burner app. Just one line:
"Begin recording. Locker Room. All angles."
Then he opened the drawer and took out a small object—a pendant.
Eli's pendant.
The one they ripped off his neck before they left him to die.
He put it on, tucked it under his collar.
Not for sentiment.
For clarity.
Then Rafael stepped out into the night.
And behind him, the apartment fell quiet—like the final breath before impact.
There's a silence that creeps in just before a breakdown.
Not the kind filled with fear.
But the kind filled with echoes.
That's what Rafael heard now.
Not noise. Not warning.
Just Eli's voice—the voice he buried long ago.
"They never said sorry."
"They never even looked back."
He sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed, still wired.
The locker room meeting was hours behind schedule.
Tyson hadn't shown.
No calls. No threats. No taunts.
Which was worse than any of those things.
Because now Rafael didn't know if he'd overplanned—or if he was already inside a trap.
2:58 a.m.
Rafael stood. Turned off all the lights. Moved through his apartment in near total darkness.
His eyes adjusted quickly. Muscle memory.
He opened the drawer with the pendant again. He hadn't worn it since the night he left the note unanswered.
Now, it almost felt heavier.
He held it in his fist.
"What are you doing, Tyson?" he whispered.
"You're not stupid. You're not scared. You're stalling."
But for what?
He Replays the Death
Not the event, but the choices.
Each player had a moment where they could've stopped it.
Marco—when he shoved Eli too hard during training.
Jude—when he saw the blood and said nothing.
Tyson—when he said *