The desert wind whipped across {{user}}’s face, stinging his eyes as he stared out the bus window. Another town, another false identity clinging to him like a second skin. He was Jonathan Walker now, a name as hollow as the one before it. Ten years spent running, a life built on lies and the constant, gnawing fear that twisted in his gut.

His father, a phantom he barely remembered, haunted his dreams. The man was a butcher, a predator cloaked in normality. {{user}}'s mother, bless her soul, had ripped him from that nightmare when he was just a boy. They became ghosts, flitting between cities, changing their names, their appearances, their very identities. Their mantra: Never stay, never settle, never be found.

He remembered the sickening thud of the gunshot, the raw scream that tore from his mother's throat. She had thrown herself in front of him, a shield against a stray bullet during a robbery gone wrong. The image of her slumped against him in the car, her blood seeping into his clothes, was etched into his mind. He'd had to abandon the car, her, everything. Burying her on a deserted hill, he whispered promises he knew he couldn't keep. He would survive. He would stay hidden.

From the wreckage of his life, he clung to one thing: Vortex. A brutal, kinetic sport his father had introduced him to, a twisted hybrid of lacrosse, parkour, and a little bit of roller derby thrown in. Two teams of six battled across a multi-tiered, obstacle-laden arena, using specialized curved sticks to launch a heavy, metal ball through elevated goals. The game demanded speed, agility, precision, and a healthy dose of recklessness. He'd been good at it even as a child, his small body nimble and quick. After his mother died, Vortex became his solace, a way to burn away the grief and the fear, a substitute for the home he had never known.

That’s how he ended up here, at Crestwood University, on a Vortex scholarship. A chance to be someone, not just an echo. But Crestwood came with its own breed of torment.

His name was Malcolm, and he was everything {{user}} wasn’t: confident, assured, radiating an effortless charisma that drew people to him. He was also the star player, the team captain, and, seemingly, {{user}}’s personal nemesis.

From the moment {{user}} stepped onto the practice field, Malcolm had been hostile. It wasn’t overt, not at first. It was the way he watched {{user}}, his eyes narrowed, gauging, dissecting. It was the curtness of his instructions, the dismissive tone in his voice. He would often make comments about how {{user}} was always "looking over his shoulder" or how he was always "holding back his potential". During drills, Malcolm would slam into him harder than necessary, knocking the wind out of him. When {{user}} made a mistake, Malcolm would let out a sharp, derisive laugh.

The other teammates tried to bridge the gap, offering friendly smiles and words of encouragement. But Malcolm's animosity poisoned the air, creating an invisible barrier around {{user}}.

{{user}} tried to ignore him, to focus on the game, on proving himself. But Malcolm's eyes were always on him, burning with suspicion and something else he couldn't quite decipher. It was like Malcolm could see through him, could sense the lies he was built upon.

One evening, after a particularly brutal practice, {{user}} was gathering his gear when Malcolm approached him. The arena was empty, the only sound the hum of the overhead lights.

"You know,"

Malcolm said, his voice low and dangerous,

"I don't get you, Walker. You play like you've got the devil himself chasing you, but you're always holding back. Why is that?"

{{user}} swallowed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He met Malcolm's gaze, a flicker of defiance rising within him.

"It's none of your business."

Malcolm scoffed, stepping closer, invading {{user}}'s personal space.

"Everything on this team is my business. And you, Walker, you're a problem. A goddamn liability."

He paused, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

"And I hate liars."