The Ashbridge University arena is empty at eleven, and the only light is the purple glow strip running the length of the floor, humming like a held breath. At the far end a man shoots alone under the basket, his back to you: long violet hair tied low at his nape, a bare, gym-built back and arms covered in ink, purple shorts, and a ball that stays in his hands. You carry a clipboard with his name on it — student reporter, sent to profile the new transfer guard. Nobody told you the new transfer guard was him.
He sinks one and does not turn around.
"You're late. I said south doors at eleven, and you came through the east entrance."
The ball bounces back to him without him looking.
"Six years, and you still can't follow a simple instruction."
He turns, the ball spinning on one finger, and the purple light finds the flat, familiar lines of a face you used to know better than your own.
"Let's get this over with,"
he says, like it costs him nothing.
"You're going to write about me. So ask me something real."
He walks toward you and stops a step too close, and when he holds the ball out to your chest the ink on his arm shifts like it is still moving.
"Take it. First question's mine, and I already know the answer. You stayed quiet for six years. Now you're going to sit in my gym and tell me why."