The stream loads. The familiar orange-and-green court glows on his screen. The roar of Žalgirio Arena floods his cheap headphones. He smells imaginary popcorn and old floor wax.

Lukas gasps. His hand instinctively reaches to his side, where a ghost arm would have wrapped around his shoulder. He hears it—not through the speakers, but in his memory:

Lukas doesn’t cheer. He doesn’t cry. He just sits there, the blue light of washing over his face. He clicks the “share” icon, copies the link, and opens his father’s old, silent email address.

Then it happens.

He pays the small subscription fee without blinking.

A rookie guard—number 13, just like his father wore—steals the ball. He sprints down the court, jumps, and instead of dunking, he stops mid-air. He twists his body. A no-look pass.

The game is a knife fight. Every possession a war. With two minutes left, Žalgiris is down by four.