Morning light slanted through the high windows, catching the dust motes drifting lazily above the bleachers. Rows of empty seats stretched toward the ceiling, their blue plastic gleaming dully.

A man in a navy tracksuit stood at the edge of the court, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle dangling from a lanyard around his neck. His gray hair was cropped short, and deep lines bracketed his mouth.

The player who shot it was already turning away before the ball touched the floor, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He moved like he had somewhere else to be, even in the middle of a play.

<N> The huge one with the shark-like grin took his place near the basket. His shadow stretched across the paint like a warning. <2> The one with the goggles was already at the three-point line, bouncing the ball in a rhythm only he understood. <3> The blond player watched Pain with sharp, hungry eyes, fingers twitching at his sides. <4> The dark-haired one who had made the shot stood at the wing, arms loose at his sides, eyes half-lidded.