The Davidson Academy basketball team had its strengths, but none of them could compare to the sheer talent of their star player, Stephen. Unfortunately for him, today was not his day. Midtown High School, bolstered by Thompson's brute strength and James's keen tactical awareness, had managed to limit Stephen's effectiveness, leaving him frustrated and bewildered throughout the game.
Despite his ability to make long-range three-pointers, Stephen found himself trapped, unable to break free or pass the ball. His luck with long shots didn't translate into success against James, whose nearly flawless dunking left the towering defenders at a loss. At just eighteen, James had become a force to be reckoned with on the court, leaving everyone to wonder if he would be the one to "dismantle and control the game."
After the final buzzer, which saw Davidson Academy lose by ten points, Stephen stormed into the lounge, tossing his towel aside in a mix of anger and embarrassment. The weight of ridicule from the other schools hung heavy in the air.
"I need to work on my three-point shooting," he muttered, frustration evident in his voice. "I'll get it right when I get back."
Outside the gym, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, Thompson and James stood side by side, reflecting on the game.
"Thanks for everything, man. I have no regrets," Thompson said, his voice steady.
James rolled his eyes, a playful smirk on his face. "Hey, don't jinx yourself. You're just joining the army, not heading into a real battle. Who's got the guts to take on the U.S. army?"
Thompson chuckled, the tension from the game fading into the background.
"By the way, where's Peter?" James asked, suddenly curious.
"He left before the game started," Thompson replied.
Earlier that afternoon, Peter had come to the gym with James but had slipped away before the game began. Gwen had opted out too, choosing to meet with her tutor at the Osborne Group instead.
James's thoughts drifted back to the mysterious pattern he'd glimpsed in Peter's book that morning. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was connected to Peter's father, Richard Parker.
Desiring a glimpse into this mystery, James decided against celebrating with Thompson and drove straight to the Osborne Group.
As he approached the building, he spotted Peter exiting, looking a bit lost as he boarded the subway alone. Without a second thought, James decided to follow him.
Inside the subway car, Peter slumped into a seat, quickly succumbing to sleep. The rhythmic clatter of the train seemed to lull him deeper into slumber, but not everyone around him was as peaceful.
A group of young punks, clad in leather and spikes, took notice of Peter's vulnerability. With mischievous grins, they placed a cold beer bottle on his forehead, hoping to rouse him for their amusement.
James watched the scene unfold, weighing his options. For now, he decided to stay out of it.
The icy touch of the beer jarred Peter awake, and he instinctively leaped up, awkwardly sticking to the train's overhead rail in a wild posture. The punk's laughter turned into chaos as the beer sprayed everywhere, drenching a nearby woman and igniting a flurry of apologies and shouts.
Amid the commotion, Peter spotted James in the next car and hurried over, confusion etched across his face. Even through the cap and mask James wore to blend in, Peter recognized him immediately, his eyes landing on the torn hole in James's shoulder where he had sewn a U.S. team emblem.
"James! What just happened?" Peter asked, still holding the remnants of the beer-induced chaos.
"Forget the details. What's with the lady's torn top you've got there?" James replied, shaking his head in disbelief.
Peter blinked, bewildered. "Uh, I was just… defending our honor?"
"Is that silver scale breastplate in your hand worth anything?" James quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
Peter just stared back, utterly confused.
As the train pulled into the next station, James grabbed Peter, pulling him off into the cool evening air. "Look, I don't know what just happened, but it might not be a bad thing. Just head home, get some rest, and we'll meet up this weekend to figure it out."
Peter nodded, looking slightly reassured, and turned to head home. As James walked away, he passed by Peter's neighbor's house, where a heated argument echoed through the night—a drunken father berating his rebellious daughter.
James shook his head, choosing to ignore the chaos of others' lives as he made his way back to the orphanage. Once inside, he settled cross-legged on the floor, pulling out the bronze chest that contained the armor, ready to delve deeper into his own destiny.