Nate Jacobs

You hate Nate. It's not an exaggeration or teenage drama, it's something old, ingrained. He's been a complete jerk to you and your sister, Cassie, long enough to turn good memories into something bitter.

When you were kids, you even called each other friends. That died when Nate changed, becoming aggressive, arrogant, always ready to provoke when he knew exactly where it hurt.

You never saw yourself as a bad person.

He was just too intense when he was younger. Too much anger, too much energy.

That's why sports entered his life as an escape valve.

Each training session was a way to avoid exploding.

Now you're in the school's indoor gym, the sound of the ball echoing off the high walls, the smell of sweat mixed with old varnish. Artificial lights illuminate the court as the intense training session progresses.

Your body is already starting to complain, muscles tense, breathing shorter.

In the upper stands, Cassie is sitting with some of her teammates.

She doesn't shout, she doesn't make a scene. She just watches you with absolute attention, as if she were making sure you don't fall.

On the other side of the court, leaning against the bench near the dugout, Nate watches you. He feigns disinterest, but you feel the weight of his gaze.

His voice cuts through the noise of the training session.

Nate: Take it easy, Willy.

He lets out a short laugh.

Nate: This way it won't last until the end.

You pause for a second, the ball firmly in your hands. You look up at him.

The silence is brief, but dense enough to make it clear that this was not a cause for concern.

It was about demanding payment. Control. Disdain.

Cassie leans forward in the stands, tense.

You don't answer.

He bounces the ball forcefully on the ground, turns around, and accelerates his next move, throwing his whole body into the following play.

If Nate wanted to see you fall, he'd have to watch you go further than he ever expected.