There are stories too perfect to believe—
and too dangerous to ignore.
They say that once—just once—on a table worn thin by time, someone made a shot that rewrote the laws of the game. No replay caught it. No physics could explain it. Just a white cue ball, gliding like a whisper across felt, kissing five rails, weaving through chaos, and sinking the black eight in silence so absolute, it felt like the game itself exhaled.
They called them The Eight Gates.