**

Darius Fall was a name that echoed through every arena, locker room, and sports network across the country. Just 25 years old, he had already carved a name for himself as one of the most promising players in the league, a point guard with an almost supernatural ability to read the court. His height was average, his build lean, but Darius possessed something that set him apart: vision. On the court, he didn't just play—he orchestrated, moving his teammates like chess pieces, predicting his opponents' moves with eerie accuracy. Fans marveled at his unshakeable calm, his knack for threading impossible passes, and his talent for outsmarting even the most experienced players.

Basketball had been his life since he was old enough to hold a ball. Growing up in a tough neighborhood with limited resources, the sport had been his escape, his outlet, and his salvation. His rise was a story of sheer determination—Darius was the kid who stayed long after practice ended, shooting hoops under dim streetlights, studying game tapes instead of partying, practicing passes on his own. He'd clawed his way to the top, moving from high school stardom to a full scholarship at a top college, and finally to the pros.

As a point guard, Darius was the brain of every team he played for. His court vision was his defining trait—a sixth sense that allowed him to see plays unfolding seconds before they actually did. He knew where everyone would be at any given moment, setting up plays with military precision. He'd earned nicknames like "The Conductor" and "The Architect," not because he was flashy or physically overpowering, but because he made every player around him better, amplifying their strengths, compensating for their weaknesses.

But what made Darius truly dangerous was his mind. His game wasn't built on raw athleticism or brute strength but on careful calculation. Watching him play was like watching a grandmaster strategize in real-time. He memorized players' habits, noted the slightest weakness, exploited patterns others couldn't even see. In interviews, he'd often describe basketball as a mental game as much as a physical one. "It's like a chessboard," he'd say with a grin. "The pieces move, but only if you know where you're taking them."

With his career skyrocketing, he'd been on the brink of stardom that few ever reached. Endorsement deals poured in, fans chanted his name, analysts called him a future legend. But despite his growing fame, Darius remained focused, always thinking about the next play, the next challenge. The game was his obsession.

"D, you're on fire tonight! Malik, his teammate, clapped him on the back as they ran to the locker room at halftime, the cheers of the crowd still echoing.

"Just doing my thing, Darius replied, his usual, confident grin lighting up his face. His body was sweating, but his spirit was alert, his brain in overdrive. They were playing one of the best in the league tonight and he ran the whole show on that court.

Coach Williams pulled him aside. "Keep it up out there, Darius. Watch their number five—he's leaving gaps on the left. Exploit it when you can."

'Yessir, Coach,' Darius said, looking at the team's playbook for a moment, but he'd already memorised it. He knew each player's tendencies and weaknesses. That's how he played—like a strategist.

Back on the court, the energy was electric. Darius dribbled down the court, his eyes scanning his teammates and the opposition like a battlefield. His brain was whirring, formulating a series of moves before he even dribbled past half-court.

'Malik, right side,' he yelled, instructing his partner with a snap of the wrist.

Malik cut toward the baseline, exactly as Darius anticipated. Now as the defender charged him, Darius turned, drawing in another defender before slinging a no-look pass behind him to Malik.

Boom! Malik's ball arced through the air and into the basket, and the crowd exploded.

As they headed back down the court, Malik smiled and slapped Darius's hand. "How do you do that, man?"

'Details, details,' Darius said, never losing his smile. "Keep an eye on their big guy. He's too slow to recover on a double team."

Another play. Another set of moves. Possession after possession, Darius changed tactics, analysing the other team's defence like a chess grandmaster studying a board.

P

---

"Darius, that no-look pass to Malik was incredible! Did you know he'd be there?"

Darius shrugged modestly. "I just read the defense. Basketball's a game of reactions; you put the ball where it needs to go, and trust your guys to be there.

Another reporter leaned in. "People are calling you 'The Architect.' How do you feel about that nickname?

He laughed, adjusting the towel draped around his neck. 'I mean, I'm just a fan of the game. It's not about me, it's about the team. We win together."

After the media left, his teammates gathered around, tossing their towels at him, playfully jabbing him for being humble. And they knew that, on the court, Darius was far from humble. He'd call out plays with intensity, his eyes fierce, as if seeing a future no one else could glimpse.

'Yo, Darius, we're going to Charley's tonight,' Malik said, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "You're coming, right?"

Darius smirked. "Wouldn't miss it."

---

That evening, he was out at Charley's Bar, where all the athletes went to relax. Fans and locals crowded around, congratulating him, asking for autographs. He obliged with a relaxed smile, making sure everyone got their moment.

"Darius, you're gonna be a legend one day! someone shouted from across the bar.

"Yeah, don't forget us when you're winning championships! another fan teased.

He raised his glass in a mock salute. "You'll still see me here, every season!"

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But in the back of his mind he knew that this was the start. His ambitions went far beyond the local fans and the packed bars. He wanted championships, MVP titles, the hall of fame. He'd sacrifice everything to reach those heights.

---

The next morning, Darius was back in the gym before dawn. Not even on a night out would he miss practice. His dreams weighed him down, held him laser-focused.

Darius's trainer, Mike, observed as Darius went through drills, his movements clean and sharp. "You're pushing it, man. It's still early."

'Only way to keep an edge, Mike,' Darius said, bouncing the ball to his familiar beat. "I've got a season to win."

Mike chuckled, leaning against the gym wall. "You know, not every player does this. Most guys are still sleeping off last night."

"That's why they're 'most guys,' Darius replied with a grin. "I'm aiming higher."

He finished his drills, grabbing his water bottle. As he took a drink, he thought about the big picture. The future championships, the fame, the legacy. Everything he did on the court was a step in that direction. For Darius, basketball wasn't just a game—it was his life's work, his way of becoming something greater.

---

Days later, he was giving an interview with a prominent sports journalist, sitting in front of the camera, his face at ease but his eyes intense.

"Darius, people are saying you're one of the best playmakers in the league. You make passes no one else even thinks about. What's your secret?"

He paused, considering his answer. "Honestly, it's about understanding the court like a chessboard. It's like…I'm seeing it three steps ahead, y'know? 'When you know where your guy's going to be, where the defender's weak, you set it all up.

The interviewer nodded, intrigued. "And what about off the court? How do you balance the fame, the pressure, the spotlight?

Darius's gaze grew serious. "It's not easy, I'll admit that. But I keep reminding myself why I'm here. Every day I wake up, and I tell myself this is what I've worked my whole life for. Fame and stress go with the job, but that's not the reason I'm doing it. I just…love the game."

He turned and left, already thinking of the next practice, the next game. He couldn't afford to get distracted—not when he was so close to everything he'd ever dreamed of.

---

As he went through his motions day after day, Darius never stopped trying to motivate his teammates to be better, to be sharper. He took them aside during practice, offering tips, explaining the tendencies of their opponents.

"See their point guard? 'He telegraphs every pass,' he told Malik one afternoon. "When he looks left, he's faking. He'll pass right. I want you to step in front and take it. Trust me."

Malik nodded, absorbing Darius's advice. "Got it, D. Thanks."

Darius laughed, clapping Malik on the shoulder. "That's what I'm here for. We win as a team."

That was Darius Fall—a rising star, a natural leader, a player who made everyone around him better.

--

The stadium that night buzzed with energy, each seat filled with a fan chanting his name.

"Da-ri-us! Da-ri-us!"

Darius Fall stood there, basking in the roar of the thousands. The lights were too bright to look at, but he didn't have to see the audience to sense their energy beaming back at him like a physical presence. His hands were warm and firm, holding the ball as if it were part of his body. It was game night, the moment he'd dreamed of since he first picked up a basketball.

'Tonight's the night, Darius,' his friend and teammate Jamie said, catching up with a smile. "The scouts, the cameras—all of it. You ready to show them who runs this court?"

Darius smirked, giving Jamie a fist bump. "I've been ready, man. Let's give them a game they'll never forget."

As he jogged to his spot on the court, every step felt like part of a familiar dance, the kind that only a master could perform with such ease. In his mind he could visualise the whole court, the spacing, the habits of each player, the soft underbelly of the other team's defence. It was all there, ready to be exploited.

He looked at his teammates and named the play. "Alright, pick-and-roll. Be quick, move like they're not even there. Let's make this perfect."

The whistle blew and Darius got the inbounds pass and looked up. His protector raised his foot, attempting to anticipate his next move. But Darius was already five steps ahead, dribbling left, then faking right, cutting through the defence like butter.

"Backdoor cut!" he called, catching Jamie's eye, one of his teammate's.

Jamie nodded, sprinting towards the basket as Darius intended. He passed the ball through a tiny hole between two defenders, watching Jamie catch it and lay it in perfectly. The audience erupted, and Darius got a rush in his chest.

"Beautiful," he muttered to himself, savoring the moment.

But as he turned to reset, he saw a familiar figure—the opposing team's forward, Jax, a hulking player with a reputation for bending the rules. Jax was watching him with hungry eyes, eyes dark and intent. A cold shiver passed through Darius' body, but he ignored it, focusing on the game.

He called for the ball, preparing for the next snap. As he moved to catch it, Jax closed in fast, his shoulder angled and his elbow cocked.

It happened in a blur. Darius hardly had time to react before Jax crashed into him, elbow aimed square into Darius's elbow. Pain shot through him, white-hot and searing. He heard a pop, and then he was lying on the ground, holding his arm.

"Darius! Jamie's voice was frantic as he knelt beside him. "Darius, talk to me—are you okay?"

Darius attempted to breathe, attempted to swallow the agony that was ripping its way through his arm. 'My my arm,' he rasped, voice barely audible, choked with pain.

The paramedics arrived, swarming him, voices chattering in a mass of incomprehensible, overlapping tones, checking his injury. They tied him to a stretcher, his world blurring as he fought to keep his eyes open. In the background, above the whooshing in his ears, he caught Jamie's voice, frantic, begging.

"Hang in there, man. You're gonna be okay—you're Darius Fall. This is just… a temporary setback."

However, as they wheeled him off the court, Darius knew better. It wasn't a sprain, or even a small fracture, that hurt his arm. This was something far worse. He could sense it in his bones, deep down in his gut. This wasn't an injury he could bounce back from.

---

Months passed. The initial shock had given way to a grueling cycle of surgeries, physical therapy, and moments of hope that seemed to vanish as quickly as they came. Every day was a reminder of what he'd lost—the gym, the adrenaline, the sense of purpose. The power in his arm never came back, the suffering a reminder that what he lost he would never get back.

One evening, Jamie called him, his voice tentative but hopeful.

"Look, Darius, Coach wants you on the bench. Just until you're ready, y'know? Maybe you can work with the guys, help guide them.

Darius closed his eyes, gripping the phone, his voice low and bitter. "Ready? Jamie, I'll never be ready. My arm's done. I'm done."

"Don't say that, man! Jamie's voice was shaky, struggling to stay upbeat. "You're Darius Fall. You belong on that court. You'll find a way."

But deep down, Darius knew. There was no way back. His reason, the source that had been his life, was lost, falling from his grasp like sand.

---

The days grew darker. He stopped answering calls, stopped watching games. Basketball—his first love, his identity—had become a painful reminder of everything he'd lost. His world was an empty one, each day a carbon copy of the last, without purpose or direction.

One evening, he stood on a bridge, gazing out at the lights of the city. They glimmered far away, and the traffic rumble from below the bridges sounded like whispers from a previous life. He could feel the wind against his skin, piercing, like the hollow place in his body.

He closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him—every pass, every play, every cheer from the crowd. For all of his life, he'd been Darius Fall, the rising star, the Architect of the court. Now, without it, he was nothing. No cheers, no fans, no future.

'I might have been somebody ' he mumbled into the darkness, his voice barely a whisper. "I should have been someone…"

As he took one final step forward, his mind went blank, the pain and weight lifting. For a moment, he felt free, unburdened.

But as he drifted, the darkness gave way to a strange, warm light. It flowed around him, light and tender, as if he were being pulled somewhere else. And at that moment everything he'd ever known dissolved, into silence and light, into the void.

That night, Darius found himself walking aimlessly through the city. He hadn't planned on going anywhere in particular—he'd just wanted to escape the apartment, the stifling weight of its silence, the mocking presence of all the reminders of a life he no longer had.

Streets were all but deserted, washed in a cold, grey glow by the streetlamps. His footsteps echoed, hollow and slow. He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked with his eyes on the ground. The cool night air bit through his thin jacket, but he barely noticed. The ache inside him was deeper, colder.

Finally he reached the bridge ᅳ a huge, arcing thing that crossed the city's river. He stood there a long time, staring out to sea. The city's lights shimmered on its dark surface, fogged and flickering, phantoms of the life he'd once led.

He walked slowly to the edge, resting his hands on the railing, and looked down. The river was deep below, black and smooth, as if it contained some secret, silent promise.

He inhaled deeply, shuddering, his hold on the railing clenching. The thoughts that had stalked him in the apartment came back, more jagged and raw in the night air. He was supposed to have been someone. Darius Fall—the rising star, the player with a vision like no one else, the point guard who saw the court as a chessboard and moved each piece with purpose.

Now, he was nothing.

The sound of a faraway car engine shattered the silence and dragged him back into his mind. He looked up at the skyline, the lights of the buildings glowing against the night. They seemed so far away, like another world, unreachable.

He shut his eyes and felt the wind brush over him, tousling his hair. His thoughts would wander back to the roar, the excitement, the feeling of being where he was supposed to be. And now? Now he was just… lost. His life had become an endless stretch of days with no meaning, no purpose, no direction.

He whispered into the wind, his voice barely audible, "I could have been someone… I should have been someone.".

He stood there, allowing that thought to sink in, heavy and conclusive.

And then, in one long fluid movement, he pulled himself up onto the railing and shut his eyes, allowing blackness to fill his head, allowing the past to recede. The pain, the broken dreams, the emptiness—all of it began to melt away as he leaned forward, feeling gravity pull at him, drawing him toward the quiet oblivion below.

In that moment, he felt a strange sense of peace.