The court was cracked. Faded white lines barely outlined the key. One of the rims leaned to the left like it had given up, and the chain net hung in patches, rusted like forgotten dreams. But none of that mattered to Andre Corbin. At midnight, under a dying streetlight humming like a wasp nest, he was here again sweating, breathing hard, and perfecting his footwork like the whole world was watching.But nobody was. Only shadows watched Andre. And shadows didn’t sign contracts. He pivoted on one foot, launched into a step-back jumper, and sent the ball flying. It bounced off the backboard and into the net with a satisfying clank. He grabbed the rebound, reset, and did it again. Then again. And again. Sweat ran down his face like rain. His muscles screamed. But he didn’t stop.He couldn’t afford to. Because tomorrow morning, Andre Corbin would be back at SpringClean Janitorial, pushing a mop through the high-rise lobbies of people who laughed in suits.Inside the locker room, he sat alo

Andre barely slept that night. His phone buzzed endlessly messages from agents, recruiters, journalists, influencers, even fake pastors promising “anointed favor” for a cut of his potential deal. He turned it off at 3 a.m.By 7 a.m., the world already had its eyes on him. He showed up to SpringClean one final time, out of habit, maybe respect. But when he entered the building, his ID card no longer scanned. He tried again. Nothing. The security guard leaned over and tapped his tablet. “You’re not on the payroll anymore.”Andre blinked. “What?” Dalton strutted into the lobby, holding his morning coffee like a trophy. “Oh, Corbin. I meant to call you.” He smirked. “HR terminated your contract this morning.”Andre’s eyebrows raised. “I didn’t even quit.” Dalton shrugged. “Thought I’d save you the trouble. After all, you’re big time now, right? Don’t forget to shout me out when you make millions. Say something like ‘I used to mop floors for that amazing boss, Mr. Dalton.’”Andre stared at

Three days after Andre’s electrifying debut, his face was on every sports blog, trending under hashtags like #CorbinCameToPlay and #FromJanitorToGiant. Pundits compared him to rookie legends. Talent scouts whispered about MVP Award potential. But inside the locker room of FC Titania, glory didn’t protect you from venom. In fact it made you a target.Morning Training – 7:30 A.M. Andre was the first on the court. Again. Coach grunted in approval as he passed. Clive, watching from the stands, leaned into his phone. “He’s up before sunrise. Doesn’t party. Doesn’t chase clout. But Reznov’s getting worse. Last night, he skipped tactics briefing.”On the court, the tension snapped like electric wire. Reznov shoulder-checked Andre mid-drill, nearly knocking him over. During passing exercises, he refused to feed him the ball. The teammates played along laughing behind hands, pretending not to see. Andre said nothing. But the heat in his eyes was boiling.Film Room – That Afternoon The team rev

Monday Morning – Titania Headquarters, 10:02 A.M. Andre sat in a sleek glass office, staring across the table at four different representatives each wearing a billion-dollar smile. On the table lay five black folders. Each bore the name of a global brand:NikeAdidasPumaGatoradeNovaFuel (a rising sports nutrition empire)Clive stood by the window, arms folded. “We don’t have to rush,” Andre said, calmly flipping through the paperwork.The NovaFuel rep leaned forward. “Actually, we’re prepared to offer $8 million upfront for a three-year exclusive. Media appearances optional. You’d be the face of our new elite line Corbin Charge.”The Nike agent laughed softly. “That’s cute. But let’s talk real numbers. We’ve got $12.5 million and a capsule line ready to launch.”Adidas countered: “$15 million. Lifetime kicks. And your own global tour.” Andre leaned back. “And what if I say no to all of you?” The reps blinked.The room fell quiet.Andre looked at Clive. “We done here?” Clive smirked

Underground Vault Office – Titania Black Division Clive typed rapidly at the encrypted terminal. Andre stood behind him, scanning a map of connections on a digital wall. Dots linked faces, companies, news outlets, and bank transfers all tied to Viktor Lorne.Clive turned. “We have a crack. A whistleblower inside Lorne’s camp. Codename: Sparrow.”Andre’s voice was razor sharp. “How do we get to him?”“He’ll contact you directly. Through something only you’ll recognize.” Later – Abandoned Court Where Andre Used to TrainThe place was falling apart, the hoop rusty, the pavement cracked. Andre walked alone, hoodie up. A single envelope was stuck to the rim.Inside: a photo of Viktor at a private gala. And a post-it note: “Look beneath the champagne. They’re all drunk on lies. Sparrow.” Andre turned the photo over. Time stamped. Dated. Cross referenced. It matched the night before his fake scandal dropped.Clive’s team ran facial recognition. Of the 42 guests, 16 had direct links to sports