The elevator hummed softly as it ascended to the 47th floor, the city's glittering skyline unfolding like a jagged crown through the glass walls. Jamal "The Titan" Reeves, at 7'2" with feet that spanned a size 20, stepped out into the hallway, his white low-top tennis sneakers whispering against the marble. He'd spotted the tourist earlier that evening—mid-30s, compact build, wide-eyed at the arena's halftime show—snapping photos of the championship trophies on display. A quick chat, a shared laugh over Jamal's glory days, and the invite slipped out like it was nothing: "Come up, see the real stuff. The memorabilia no one's touched."
The door to the penthouse swung open, and Jamal ushered the man inside with a broad, easy grin. The apartment was a shrine to excess: walls lined with framed jerseys from his three NBA rings, a signed Spalding from his rookie dunk contest, shelves groaning under MVP plaques and sneaker prototypes. The tourist—let's call him Alex—wandered in awe, his own sneakers scuffing the hardwood as he trailed fingers over a photo of Jamal posterizing a defender mid-air.
"Drink?" Jamal offered, already pouring two fingers of bourbon into crystal tumblers from the bar cart. His voice was a low rumble, like thunder rolling in from the lake. Alex nodded, accepting the glass, and they settled into the leather armchairs by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The conversation flowed easy at first—Jamal recounting the '09 Finals, the buzzer-beater in overtime, the roar of the crowd that still echoed in his dreams. Alex leaned in, mesmerized, the bourbon warming his chest as the night deepened.
But then Jamal's gaze drifted to his feet, crossed casually at the ankles, those massive sneakers gleaming under the recessed lights. "You know," he said, swirling his drink, "folks always talk about the height. The reach. But it's these that made the difference." He flexed one foot, the sole creaking faintly against the rug. Alex chuckled politely, assuming it was about balance or pivot moves. Jamal's smile didn't fade. "Big feet? They're a weapon. Shorter guys—they scramble, they slip. I plant, and they're done. Grounded. No escape."
As he spoke, Jamal rose, ambling to the dimmer switches. One flick, and the warm glow over the memorabilia softened. Another, and the kitchen bar faded to shadow. The room hushed, moonlight spilling in like spilled mercury, fracturing off the city lights below—neon veins pulsing through the endless sprawl. Alex shifted in his seat, the bourbon suddenly heavier in his gut. Jamal kept talking, his voice a steady cadence, circling back to the chair but not sitting. "Advantage over the little ones, every time. You step right, they fold. It's power you feel in your bones."
He paused then, towering over Alex, his shadow swallowing the chair. The air thickened, charged like the moment before a fast break. "I've got this fantasy," Jamal confessed, his tone casual, almost confiding, as if sharing a locker-room secret. "Been nursing it for years. Laying a guy out flat—right on the floor like this—and standing on his head. Both feet. Full weight. Slow. Watching it give, inch by inch, until it's just... paste. Nothing left but the mess." Alex's glass trembled in his hand, the ice clinking like a warning. He opened his mouth, but no sound came—stunned, the words lodged in his throat as Jamal's eyes locked on his, unblinking. "And you? You're the one tonight. Chosen."
Before Alex could bolt, Jamal's hands were on him—massive paws clamping shoulders like vices, guiding him down with inexorable gentleness. No struggle, no scream; the bourbon dulled the edges, and Jamal's presence was a gravity well. He positioned Alex near the window, on his stomach, cheek pressed to the cool hardwood, head facing into the dim heart of the room. The city thrummed beyond the glass, a distant symphony of horns and sirens, oblivious.
Alex's breath hitched, pulse hammering in his ears, but time fractured—Jamal was already stepping up. Those white low-tops, pristine and enormous, loomed like twin monoliths. The first foot settled on the side of Alex's head, the sneaker's tread biting into temple and jaw, the laces brushing his ear. Then the second, full transfer of weight: 320 pounds descending, deliberate, unhurried. A muffled crunch echoed—the orbital cracking like eggshell under pressure, sinuses collapsing in a wet pop. Alex's world narrowed to agony, a red haze of bone grinding against floor, his body convulsing in futile spasm.
Jamal stood steady, gazing out at the metropolis, his face a mask of serene detachment—no remorse, no flicker of doubt. Just the faint uptick of his pulse, the thrill coiling in his gut. "The city never sleeps," he murmured, voice soft as a courtside whisper, directed at the quivering form beneath him. Beneath the rubber sole, the sounds unfolded in a grotesque orchestra: the initial snap of cartilage, the slurping give of tissue yielding to force, the rhythmic squelch as gray matter seeped and flattened. A low groan from fracturing skull, bubbling into silence as the vault caved. A plethora of sounds—each one a spark, igniting Jamal's veins with electric fire.
He lingered there, long after the twitching ceased, the head reduced to a glistening smear, viscous and unrecognizable, pooling dark against the grain of the wood. Flexing his toes in those sneakers, he felt the subtle shift—the paste conforming, warm and yielding under the fabric. The city lights danced on, eternal witnesses, and Jamal exhaled slow, the weight a crown he wore alone.
