The game was over, the roar of the crowd still clinging to Coonie's ears like smoke. Victory had tasted sweet but Coonie Smith, Vorpal's mouthy sixth man, carried something else with him as he trudged down his street. His sneakers slapped the pavement, his hoodie half-zipped, his sarcastic thoughts already boiling before he even reached the porch.

The porch light flickered. Paint chipped. The doorframe creaked. He stood there for a second, staring, like he always did. A champion on the court. Just another kid with cracked shoes when he stepped off it.

He exhaled, pushed the door open, and called out in that sing-song sarcasm only he could get away with.

"I'm home."

From the kitchen came the voice that never failed to cut into him — warm, sharp, and laced with belief he didn't ask for.

"I told you, Coonie! I told you you'd win the game." His mother stepped out, apron tied tight, eyes bright like she was the one who'd dunked the ball. "It's all because of Pastor Delrio's blessing."

Coonie froze, shoulders stiffening. He dropped his gym bag with a heavy thud.

"I told you, Mom," he muttered, sarcasm bleeding into frustration. "It's not like that. That motherfucker's just a cult shit."

Her smile faltered. The air cracked, silence snapping between them.

She folded her arms, that old tension rising like a tide. "Don't you dare talk like that about the man who prays for you. You think it's just your skill that won? You think it's just you?"

Coonie laughed sharp, bitter, self-mocking. "Yeah, Mom. Crazy, right? Maybe I actually can shoot a ball without some bald preacher waving oil on my forehead."

She glared. "Watch your mouth."

But Coonie's eyes burned. He wasn't backing down. Not tonight.

"No, you watch," he said, jabbing a thumb at himself. "I'm the one running suicides until I puke. I'm the one catching shit from Ryan and Louie until I prove I belong. I'm the one bleeding on that court. Not Pastor Delrio. Not his cult."

The word cult hung there, sour and heavy.

His mom's lips pressed tight, but he could see the wound in her face — the crack between faith and her son. She wanted to believe. Needed to believe. And that belief wasn't about basketball. It was about everything she'd lost, everything she clung to.

Coonie sighed, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. For a moment, his sarcasm slipped, and what came out was softer, almost weary.

"It's me, Mom. Not him. If I win, it's me. If I lose, it's me. Stop giving my life to somebody else's hands."

The kitchen clock ticked, loud as a referee's whistle. His mom turned away, muttering, "You'll understand one day. You'll see he's the one protecting you."

Coonie wanted to spit a comeback, wanted to burn the whole idea down but something stopped him. Maybe the tired slump of her shoulders. Maybe the way her hands trembled as she clutched the apron.

So he just shook his head, grabbed his bag, and walked to his room.

Under his breath, low enough only he could hear, he whispered:

"The only one protecting me… is me."

And when the door shut, the house was left split in two faith in the kitchen, defiance in the bedroom, and a storm building that neither Pastor Delrio nor Coonie himself could yet name.

Coonie dropped his bag onto the floor and let himself fall onto the edge of his bed. The springs groaned, the kind of sound that matched his chest worn out, stretched too thin.

The cheers from the gym still echoed in his head, but here in the dim silence of his room, they felt fake. Gone. The walls pressed in.

He dragged both hands over his face, then let out a half-laugh, half-growl.

"Shitty situation, huh, Coonie?" he muttered to himself. "Win a big game, come home to a sermon."

His eyes wandered to the photo frame on the nightstand — dusty, tilted. His father's smile stared back, strong and sure, holding a fishing rod at the lake.

The ache hit him in the gut.

He remembered the funeral. The silence. His mother's hollow eyes. How she'd barely spoken, barely eaten, barely looked at him. Weeks of nothing.

Until him.

Pastor Delrio. That bastard with his too-white teeth and oily words.

At first, Coonie thought the man had saved her. She smiled again. Cooked again. Stopped crying at night. For a second, he'd even believed his mom was normal again.

But then the prayers grew louder. The meetings longer. The rules stricter.

No TV in the house unless it was "approved." No friends unless they "believed." Every meal had to start with Pastor's name before God's.

And worst of all? She dragged Coonie into it too.

Blessings before every game. Tithes from money they didn't even have. His victories — twisted into proof of Delrio's power.

Coonie clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

"It's not his win. It's mine," he whispered, eyes burning holes into the photo of his dad. "If you were still here, none of this shit would've happened."

He flopped back on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

But a memory wouldn't leave him alone. A voice, Pastor Delrio's, deep and slick, from the last meeting his mother had dragged him to:

"The boy is gifted, chosen. His hands will carry victory not by his own will, but by the will of the path we prepare for him."

The room seemed colder suddenly. That sentence clung to him, heavier than sweat, heavier than exhaustion.

Coonie swallowed hard, his sarcasm gone, replaced by a sharp unease.

"Chosen, huh?" he muttered. "Chosen for what?"

A creak echoed outside his window — just the wind, probably. But his gut twisted anyway. He shut his eyes, forcing the thought away.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from whispering, like a curse he didn't want anyone to hear:

"That cult's got their claws in Mom. But they're not getting me. Not me."

He rolled over, clutching the pillow tight, anger mixing with fear. Because somewhere deep down, beneath all his sarcasm, one truth burned that he couldn't laugh away—

Pastor Delrio wasn't just a fanatic. He was connected to something larger. Something darker.

And Coonie Smith… was already on their radar.

..

Meanwhile The night was deep. Somewhere far from Coonie's room, beyond the sleepy suburbs and dim church halls, a chamber hummed with shadows.

Marble floor. Blackened glass. A table that looked carved from stone older than time.

The circle had gathered.

The Bald Old Man sat at the head, fingers drumming on the surface with the patience of someone who could wait decades to crush an enemy. His skull gleamed under the low light.

To his right, Madame Vena's piercing gaze never left her parchment of notes. Ron leaned back in his gray blazer, calm and predatory. Drew swirled a glass of red liquid, smirking like chaos wrapped in silk. Jerry pushed his glasses up his nose, the grin on his lips too wide, too sharp.

And standing just beyond them, platinum hair spilling like molten light beneath his mask, was Cloud. Silent. Watching. A blade waiting to move.

The heavy doors creaked.

Pastor Delrio entered, his white suit spotless, his smile the same false warmth he wore for desperate mothers and grieving sons.

He bowed slightly, then lifted his eyes toward the Bald Old Man.

"How's the Smith family?" the Bald Old Man asked, his voice low, gravel scratching the air.

Delrio's smile widened. "The mother is bound. Her faith is unquestioning now. She breathes my words as if they were scripture. The boy… resists."

Madame Vena arched a brow. "The boy?"

"The son," Delrio clarified smoothly. "Coonie Smith. He hides behind sarcasm, but that's only fear in disguise. He has the potential. The spark."

Jerry leaned forward, lenses flashing. "Potential for what?"

Delrio's grin turned unsettling. "For breaking. For rebuilding. For belonging. You see, his anger feeds him. His loneliness carves the cracks. All it takes is the right push, and he'll either crumble—"

"—or become a weapon," Ron finished, calm as ever.

The Bald Old Man tapped his knuckles once on the stone. The sound echoed like a gavel. "Good. Keep the mother in your grasp. Let her fanaticism rot the home. But do not touch the boy too soon."

Cloud shifted, voice sharp, cutting through the chamber. "Again…If any of you lay a hand on Ethan, I'll kill you myself."

The Bald Old Man didn't even flinch at the threat. His cold eyes slid back to Delrio.

"Focus on Smith," he said. "Every army needs its weak link. Every rising sun needs its shadow."

Delrio bowed deeper, his tone dripping with devotion. "As you command."

For a moment, silence pressed heavy. Then Drew chuckled, loud and mocking. "So the sarcastic kid on the bench is our next project? Damn. This league just got spicier."

But no one laughed with him.

Because they all knew

The cult in Coonie's house wasn't just religion.

It was recruitment.

And Coonie Smith's life was already tangled in the same web that hunted Ethan, Lucas, and the rest of Vorpal.

To be continue

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