CHAPTER 43: SAFE FOR THE FIRST TIME

The woman began walking across the court.

Heels echoed against cracked pavement. Her long, pale blonde hair swayed behind her and every movement of her hips came with a hypnotic rhythm that broke the court’s air.

Her figure was absurd, not the sculpted, hard fitness of a Breakball player, but something older, juicier, mature.

Her curves jiggled slightly with every step, the sway of her generous chest barely contained beneath her blouse. Tight black pants hugged thighs that could crush egos, and her coat fluttered around her like the cape of a villainess. She wasn’t built like the girls who played here, she was built like the reason they lost.

The teens unconsciously parted like a tide, letting her pass. Eyes wide, mouths closed.

She glanced left and right. For each player she passed, her gaze flicked down, scanned, then filed away.

"Quad dominance with no ankle support," she murmured, passing a tall boy with too-short socks. "Sprain risk in two weeks."

"Inward knee collapse, pelvic tilt. No wonder you limp to your right."

"Compression shirt two sizes too tight. Restricting shoulder mobility."

They didn’t know whether to be insulted or impressed. But no one dared interrupt.

Then she stopped.

Her eyes locked on a skinny guy with sagging baggy jeans, a beanie halfway off his head, and an oversized hoodie drenched in sweat.

She pointed.

"You," she said. "You are a statistical anomaly."

The boy blinked.

"Huh?"

She stepped forward and circled him.

"Horrendous gait. Zero posture. No upper-body control. Your dribble form is compromised by your own sleeve length. And your pants? You might as well be dragging parachutes."

She leaned in slightly, eyes behind those black frames gleaming.

"You have succeeded in the rare feat of making every possible physical and aesthetic choice that worsens performance."

The others laughed nervously.

She ignored them.

"Why are you playing," she asked, cold and poised, "if your only contribution is to sabotage your teammates?"

He stammered, speechless.

But no one moved. Because even if she just humiliated one of their own, she did it while standing like a goddess with curves that made every guy swallow their breath.

She scanned the court again and crossed her arms.

"The average level here is under Rookie," she said. "If the boy who made them eat grass played with you, then he’s truly formidable."

Her eyes locked on a girl with freckles and glasses, sitting quietly on the sideline.

"You," she called.

The girl flinched.

"Me?"

"You don’t play," the woman said, eyeing her outfit and posture. "But you’ve been here enough to watch every mistake. Where’s the boy who defeated Blacklist?"

Meanwhile, across the district, Nash sat in a bar booth beside Zayela.

Facing them were two men. Pez and his partner, the loan sharks.

Pez leaned back, smirking.

"Look at this. Little man. You had that big mouth last time. All that bravado... ’I’ll find a way, just wait’, and now?"

His grin widened.

"You dragged this poor girl with you. You know it’s your fault, right? She had to take the deal because you were too useless to help. Now she’s gonna lose her cherry to the boss. That’s the initiation. Then it’s open season. Every man in the office gets a turn. Oh, and there’s about hundreds of them. Quite the first time, right?"

Zayela trembled with rage beside Nash.

But Nash placed his hand over hers. Gave her a calm look that cooled her fury.

Then he turned back to Pez.

"Let’s talk about the debt."

Pez raised a brow.

"Still pretending you can do shit?"

"Just remind me," Nash said, voice casual, "what’s the exact number?"

Pez chuckled.

"Eight thousand, nine hundred credits. You remember it now that it’s too late?"

Nash nodded slowly.

Then dropped a thick envelope on the table.

Pez and his partner stared at the envelope.

They blinked, then Pez frowned.

"What is this?"

"Open it," Nash said, tone light. "I figure it should be enough."

Pez exchanged a glance with his guy, then gave a small nod.

The partner reached for the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the thick stack of cash in, brows twitching. He took the bundle and flipped through it.

He froze.

"What is this?" Pez asked again, voice lower.

Nash rested his elbow on the table, chin propped against his fist.

"That’s eight thousand, nine hundred credits. No more. No less. The debt."

Pez’s jaw worked.

"No. That’s not..." he stopped, counted quickly, then scowled.

"This... you had this?"

"Apparently."

"You... where the hell did you get this money?!"

"You didn’t ask that last time."

Pez slammed the table.

"This some kind of trick?! How a rat like you could get the money?! Are you trying to trick us??"

His partner looked just as stunned, still counting, still confirming.

"It’s legit. All of it."

Pez stared at Nash, then at Zayela, then back to Nash.

Zayela had been dead silent this whole time. Frozen. Even now, her eyes flicked between them, heart racing, waiting for the explosion.

But Nash didn’t flinch.

"You want it or not?" he asked.

Pez’s eyes narrowed.

"You think this erases everything?"

"It erases the debt. That’s what matters. Also there are some cameras in this place, and we’re right under one of them. So I can prove I gave you the money. If it were to... Disappear. It’d be on you."

Pez hissed. He looked at the cash again, like he wanted to burn it. But his hands gripped it tight.

He was deeply frustrated. Every part of him screamed for a reason to say no. But there wasn’t one. The money was real.

It was over.

"Fine," he muttered finally. "Debt... cleared."

Zayela’s breath caught.

She didn’t even realize she was shaking until her hand tightened around Nash’s.

"You two are free," Pez said, every word like poison.

Nash stood.

He looked down at the two men, eyes steady. "Good. Thank you for your patience."

Pez said nothing. He just looked at Nash with a venom that couldn’t pierce anything now.

Zayela rose slowly. Still stunned.

Was it really happening? Were they being set free?

Nash placed a hand on her lower back, guiding her.

They walked out. Together.

She didn’t say a word.

But her eyes were more and more glassy.

Pez wasn’t following, Nash wasn’t insisting. For each step she could feel the tension leave her shoulders.

And once she reached the outside, her tears finally dropped.

She was finally free.

Once outside, Nash let out a slow breath and glanced at the ceiling-sky of the underground.

"That went better than expected," he muttered. "The trick is to not be too arrogant or too weak. Just enough cold and casual to keep them confused."

He tilted his head toward Zayela with a crooked smirk.

"Now we just need to get on the train, ride as far out as possible before they change their minds and send someone to slice our—"

But before he could finish, Zayela wrapped her arms around him.

He stumbled half a step back, surprised. She clung to him, her face buried against his chest.

She was trembling, breathing unevenly.

Then came the words, sharp and furious.

"What just happened...?" Her voice cracked. "How did you do that?"

Nash stayed still.

"You were useless!" she blurted. Her hands clenched into the back of his hoodie. "You couldn’t even keep change in your pocket! I fought for us! I lied, begged, dodged, worked! I was alone! How the hell did you become the one who saves me?! What happened?! What the fuck changed in three days?!"

Nash looked down at her.

She was breaking. Her entire body seemed to unload years of tension all at once. Like her soul had finally exhaled.

He placed a hand gently over her back.

Silent for a second, then softly spoke.

"Every problem from now on is mine to handle. You don’t have to worry anymore."

Zayela shook her head against him.

"You say that now, but what if it’s fake? What if this whole thing... is just another fake hope? What if we regret it tomorrow?"

Nash was about to reassure her, but then froze. He looked past her, past the street.

For the first time, he really thought about it.

The System.

What he had accomplished in three days. How ridiculous it all was. How unstoppable he felt.

But if it were to vanish tomorrow...?

How much of that power was really his?

He had never considered its permanence. Never questioned whether the gift was infinite. He’d been reckless, confident, almost arrogant because he believed it would never end.

Now, holding Zayela in his arms, he understood the stakes.

He drew in a breath.

"Even if it goes away," he murmured, "I’ll find another way. I have enough now. Enough talent to make it. I’ll get into a Breakball team, I’ll make money, whatever it takes. I’ll work harder than I ever have. For us."

His voice steadied.

"You’re not alone anymore. You never will be again."

Zayela didn’t answer.

But her grip on him shifted.

She rested her head fully against his chest. His body was so warm now, his arms so firm around her. A few days ago, he was a scrawny kid who couldn’t even defend himself.

Now, he felt like a wall against the world.

She sank into him, letting herself cry, quietly, without shame.

It wasn’t her cousin anymore, her brain worked hard to erase this part from her mind. No, at this moment, she didn’t want to see him as a cousin, but a man.

He was the man she’d waited for all her life, and she wasn’t letting go.