Extra Basket Chapter 85 - 72: White (28)

"" Louie muttered, spinning the basketball lazily on one finger. His grin was crooked — tired, but still full of spark.

""

Lucas gave a solemn nod, brushing sweat from his temple.

""

""

Evan, cool-headed even in exhaustion, whispered with a rare softness:

""

The tension finally loosened its grip on their shoulders.

But then — a shout cracked the calm like a whip

"It’s not the time to celebrate!!"

All heads turned.

Noah White stood frozen, eyes wide with dread. His voice was trembling, caught between panic and fury.

""

And there — at the far end of the court — stood Greg Tarrow.

Disheveled, eyes sunken from obsession and hate, a shadow of the man he once was. His hand clutched a sleek black pistol. In front of him, his hostages — Panny White and her younger son, Aiden.

Panny’s eyes brimmed with fear, shielding her son as best she could, her arms trembling.

Greg’s voice broke through the court like venom in glass:

""

Everyone froze.

Even the Venganza team stood paralyzed, unsure whether to act or breathe.

Ethan stepped forward, fists clenched.

""

Greg’s lip curled into a smirk.

""

Noah clenched his fists.

""

Lucas shouted, his voice laced with righteous fury:

""

Greg’s eyes gleamed like a man past reason.

He raised the gun — and pointed it directly at Panny.

"" he spat.

"

"

Panny gasped, shielding Aiden.

""

Aiden grabbed her hand, tears threatening to fall.

""

Across the court, Vin and his team watched in horror.

Vin stepped forward, his voice low:

""

Greg whirled toward him, the pistol now shaking in his hand.

"" he roared.

""

""

He glared at them like fire, spitting every word like acid.

"

"

""

Silas flinched. Zeke looked away. Even Kaia’s other voice, Zaia, went quiet.

Greg wasn’t just unraveling — he was shattering, piece by piece, in front of everyone.

He was no longer a mastermind. No longer a businessman.

Just a bitter, broken man with a gun and nothing left to lose.

It feels like Time slowed.

Sweat dripped from brows.

Breaths came shallow and fast.

The gun... did not waver.

And yet — no one ran.

They stood still — as if the weight of every decision, every lie, every fight — had finally led here.

Noah’s legs trembled, but he stood.

He stood not because he was brave, but because he had to. Because he could no longer bear to see his little brother Aiden shaking behind their mother, or their mom shielding them both with her own fragile body.

""

His fists clenched at his sides as he took a step forward. But before he could say anything, someone else moved.

Lucas Graves. His shirt soaked in sweat and blood from the earlier collision. His limbs barely holding him upright. But his eyes — those warm, stubborn eyes — still burned.

He took a shaky step toward Greg, but just as his foot landed—

""

Ethan Albarado stepped in front of him.

Lucas paused, looking at the back of the boy who had once sat quietly on the bench. The same Ethan who’d kept his head low... who now walked forward like the court belonged to him.

"" Lucas said softly.

There was no resentment in his voice — only trust. A strange, quiet belief that Ethan knew what he was doing.

Ethan didn’t look back.

He walked with steady steps — toward the barrel of the gun.

"" Ethan said coldly.

""

Greg’s hand twitched, lips curled in rage.

"" he hissed.

""

But then, another voice called out.

""

Vin Cruz. Staggered but standing tall. His left arm still shaking from the side effects of the third pill, his eyes reddened but clear.

He limped forward and stopped beside Ethan.

"" Vin repeated, his voice low but firm.

"

"

Greg’s hands trembled. "You too? After everything I did for you?! I gave you power! I gave you a purpose!"

"" Vin shook his head. ""

The court had fallen into a silence so sharp it cut through the tension like a blade.

The glint of the gun. The trembling fingers behind it.

Greg Tarrow’s voice cracked through the quiet:

"SHUT UP!!"

His arm jerked forward — the barrel now aimed straight at Noah White’s chest.

Lucas moved instinctively.

Evan stepped forward, steady but tense.

Louie grit his teeth, fingers curling into fists.

Zeke positioned himself beside Vin, shoulder brushing his friend’s in solidarity.

Silas stood before Kaia, protective, while within her — the softest whisper echoed like a growing storm:

"Let me out," Zaia murmured from the dark corners of Kaia’s mind.

But Ethan—

He didn’t move.

He didn’t flinch.

He took a step forward instead, eyes calm, voice colder than winter rain

"" Ethan said,

""

From behind him, a cry cracked the air—

"ETHAN!!" Charlotte screamed, voice filled with panic and disbelief.

Greg’s arm trembled. His knuckles went white against the grip.

"I SAID SHUT UP!!" he barked again, but his voice had lost its edge.

The pistol in his hand felt heavier than all his years of bitterness, as though his rage was trying to drag him down into the grave it had dug. Sweat poured down his temple, stinging his eyes.

He blinked.

And blinked again.

The gym’s dim lights glinted off the metal of the gun.

The crowd of teenagers — bruised, bloodied, united — stared at him.

But not with fear.

With something else.

Defiance.

Conviction.

The referee, one of Greg’s own men, stepped forward now, pointing his own gun at the hostages.

Two barrels.

Two lives hanging by a thread.

Greg’s voice cracked:

"You people don’t know anything about me—about our history with these " he screamed, violently shifting the muzzle toward Aiden and Panny White.

Panny pulled her son close.

The boy — barely 14, going on 15 — looked at his mother. His voice was soft, quiet, too small for this cruel world.

"Mom..."

And in that fragile word, he said everything.

Love.

Fear.

A goodbye, unspoken.

Greg’s finger began to tighten.

He gritted his teeth, every muscle in his face twitching with hatred.

"Adios, Panny White—"

Panny shut her eyes, lips trembling.

And then—

A deafening crack.

Gunfire.

But not Greg’s.

The shot came from behind him.

Greg’s eyes widened in shock.

A sudden, sharp burn bloomed in his chest.

He staggered.

He looked down.

Blood.

So much blood, soaking into his suit like ink through old parchment.

Slowly, painfully, Greg turned toward the source.

And there—standing calmly amidst the shadows, the barrel of a smoking pistol lowering—

Was a figure in a sheep mask.

Silent.

Unmoving.

Time seemed to stop.

Then—

"KYAAHH!!"

Charlotte’s scream pierced the gym, raw and terrified. She stumbled backward, clutching her ears, her whole body trembling.

Kaia fell to her knees, hands flying to her head, eyes wide in horror.

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t scream.

She couldn’t even breathe.

Her fingers clawed at the fabric of her jacket like it could shield her from the sound, from the world.

Inside her mind, Zaia stirred, whispering through the cracks of fear:

"They hurt you again. Let me out. Let me , Kaia."

Silas reached her before she fell completely, grabbing her by the shoulders, grounding her with a hand on her back.

"Kaia, it’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here."

But Kaia couldn’t hear him.

The sound still echoed in her head, like her skull was ringing.

Charlotte had dropped to her knees, arms around her head, lips whispering words without sound.

The gunshot... it brought her back.

Back to that hospital hallway.

Back to her mother’s sobs.

Back to the sight of her father—Roman Graves, silent and still, tubes snaking from his body.

That of the heart monitor.

The coldness of it all.

Lucas saw her.

And for a moment, he wasn’t standing on a basketball court.

He was ten years old again, holding his elder sister’s hand as they waited for news.

He remembered the pale light. The silence in that hospital room.

He remembered he cried and the way Charlotte wouldn’t stop shaking.

And now she was doing it again.

"Sis..." he whispered, voice cracking.

He knelt beside her, gently pulling her close.

She flinched at first. But then her hands gripped his jersey, burying her face in his shoulder. "I can’t—Lucas, I can’t do this again—"

"Shh. I’m here." His voice was soft but firm. He looked over her shoulder—his eyes locking with Ethan’s.

Ethan...

Still standing.

Still calm.

But his hands were trembling.

He stared at the blood spilling from Greg’s chest.

He couldn’t look away.

Because even though Greg was the enemy—even though he deserved it—

There was something visceral about seeing a man fall like that.

A man who was alive one second—

And bleeding out the next.

Louie had backed away, pacing in a tight circle, fists clenched, mumbling:

"What the hell, what the hell, what the hell..."

Zeke was pale, like the color had drained from his face.

Vin stood frozen, shoulders locked, mouth slightly open. He wasn’t breathing.

Even the referee—Greg’s man—dropped his weapon, hands shaking, muttering apologies under his breath.

He hadn’t signed up for this.

Nobody had.

Then Ethan’s eyes went wide. His heart froze.

"A... sheep?"

"(Sheep? I knew this sheep guy from the novel , but they’re not supposed to be here.)"

Greg collapsed to one knee, gasping, his hand pressing against the wound, trying to stop the tide.

He coughed once. Red spatters hit the ground.

His voice was a dry rasp:

"You..."

The figure took a step closer, calm and deliberate.

The sheep mask remained expressionless — eerie in its silence, like a porcelain face pulled from some long-forgotten nightmare.

Then, he spoke.

"Take the blame, Greg."

Greg’s eyes fluttered, wide and wet with disbelief. His blood-slicked hand tried to push himself upright, but he only managed to shift a few inches.

His mouth opened.

"After all I did for the organization... after all I gave..." he rasped.

"...I’m just a pawn to be discarded."

He swayed... then collapsed.

Face-first onto the hardwood.

A sickening, dull .

Then came the sound of it.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The blood crept outward slowly, pooling under him, tracing the faint cracks between the floorboards.

The red of it looked surreal under the cold gymnasium lights — too bright, too real.

The only sounds now were the soft hum of the ceiling fixtures and the uneven, panicked breathing of the children left in the aftermath.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Panny stood there — frozen, trembling. Her eyes locked onto Greg’s.

His face was turned toward her now, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, breath coming in short gasps.

He blinked slowly... his lips trembling.

"Why must I suffer for your greatness... why..."

He cried.

Panny’s hands covered her mouth. Her tears were falling freely now, shoulders shaking.

Her voice cracked as she whispered,

"Greg..."

Aiden clung to her side, trying to be strong — but his body betrayed him.

He was only fourteen.

He cried.

He couldn’t help it.

He wasn’t ready to see someone die.

Greg’s eyes rolled up slowly.

And then...

They stopped moving.

His body stilled.

The last breath slipped from his lungs like the hiss of wind escaping a broken window.

The Sheep tilted his head, almost... thoughtfully. "In the end... this is your story, Greg,"

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!?"

Lucas shouted, his voice hoarse and shaking — not just with rage, but fear.

That shot had reopened wounds that never healed.

Roman Graves.

His father.

Another man, another tragedy.

The Sheep turned toward him slowly, as if considering him for the first time.

"Hmm. The Graves siblings."

His voice dropped into something between curiosity and... amusement.

Charlotte flinched behind Lucas, still holding onto him.

She couldn’t bear to look at the blood again.

"Make him stop Lucas..." she whispered. "Please, Ethan... make him stop."

Ethan stepped forward.

Not angrily.

Not bravely.

Just steadily — despite his hands still trembling.

"Who are you...?