"Tweet-!"
A shrill whistle sliced through the air above the gym.
The referee tossed the basketball high into the air.
Class 018's center was a hulking six-foot-three boy. He drove through his legs and sprang into the air like a bear. His hand had just touched the ball's orange surface.
"Thud!"
A dull impact rang out, enough to set teeth on edge.
Class 024's Mohawk hadn't even jumped. Like a raging rhino, he lowered his shoulder and drove a textbook Muay Thai elbow straight into the center's right ribs.
"Crack."
The crisp sound of snapping bone carried through the courtside microphone, clear throughout the entire gym.
The center didn't even have time to scream. He flew sideways like a kite with its string cut, slammed onto the polished wooden floor, and skidded ten feet.
The basketball fell. Mohawk caught it easily, swaggered to the basket while dribbling, and scored a casual layup.
"Two-zero!" The referee flipped the scoreboard without expression.
The entire gym fell silent for two seconds.
Then the stands erupted with a roar.
"Nice hit! Smash him to death!"
"Play defense! Did you fuckers skip breakfast? Go for his balls!"
Girls from every class waved homemade cheering sticks, their faces flushed and their screams rising in wave after wave, without a trace of ladylike restraint. Girls raised in Gotham's East End had never had the word "demure" in their vocabulary.
Up in the gym's highest VIP stand.
Yang Ming reclined on a spacious leather sofa, his legs crossed and propped on the railing. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, a satisfied smile curling his lips.
"Now that's the youthful energy Gotham ought to have."
"Thump." A cup of iced cola, half-filled with ice, slammed down beside Yang Ming's hand. A few drops splashed onto his leather shoes.
Loki wore