"Fast break! Westbrook leading the charge! Seven seconds left!"
The commentator's voice ripped through the roar of Paycom Center like a siren.
Ryan Carter's fingers dented the beer can in his grip, the aluminum groaning under pressure. 119-118. Game 1 of the 2025 Western Conference Semifinals, the Nuggets down by one. And charging down the court like a storm was Russell Westbrook—no longer Thunder blue and orange, now clad in Denver's deep navy, the number 4 on his back.
"NO! NO! NO!"
Three commentators screamed in unison.
Ryan knew that panic. Game 6, 2016 Western Finals. Game 5, first round, 2018. All those last-minute pull-ups from Westbrook that made hearts stop—none in a good way. The arena's giant screen zoomed in: Russ's lips pressed thin, his gaze electric. Killer mode activated.
Ryan's knees gave out just a little.
For a moment, he was back at the Dean Smith Center in Chapel Hill—the cathedral of college basketball, banners swaying high above, whispering of legends. Rain tapped against the glass like tears from a loss not yet accepted.
Coach Williams didn't sugarcoat it. He flipped through the evaluation sheet, his championship ring clinking softly against the clipboard. "The numbers don't lie, Ryan."
He didn't look up. Just ran a finger down the page.
"Six-foot flat. A hundred and seventy pounds. Vertical barely hits twenty-five inches. Shooting percentage? Twenty-seven. Your ball-handling speed's slower than our backup point guard by over a second."
The plastic folder snapped shut with finality. "College basketball demands certain gifts, son." The championship coach's voice carried the weight of decades evaluating talent. "Right now, you wouldn't make our JV squad."
Then the TV behind them erupted—Westbrook posterizing Rudy Gobert, the dunk shaking the screen. That was the day Ryan learned some heights were unreachable… unless you were Russell Westbrook.
"AG slipping to the corner! Five seconds left! Westbrook with the pass—"
The commentator's voice snapped Ryan back to the present, yanking him out of memory like a rough foul.
The beer can slipped from Ryan's hand, hitting the carpet with a dull thud. Amber liquid soaked into the fibers.
As Aaron Gordon caught the ball in the corner, time slowed, sound drained from the world. The chaos of the crowd blurred into a vacuum.
Knees bent. Wrist snapped.
BANG!
"Got it!"
The ball sliced through the net with surgical perfection. The net fluttered upward like a white firework frozen mid-bloom.
The entire Paycom Center held its breath. Silence spilled across the arena like fog.
Then the buzzer.
119-121.
The Nuggets, the underdogs, had just stolen Game 1 with a buzzer-beater.
Ryan stumbled out of the arena, phone in hand, replaying the shot on loop. The night air was cool, but his blood burned like fire. That pass. That shot. That man. Westbrook had done it again.
Then—
Headlights.
Tires screaming.
A dull, metallic thud.
The world went quiet.
He was lying on the asphalt. Warm liquid was trickling past his ear. It took him a moment to realize it was his own blood.
Strangely, his phone still played.
"Fast break! Westbrook leading the charge..."
"Westbrook..." he whispered, trying to lift his hand. The blood on his fingers glistened under the moonlight—dark, almost purple.
————
"Pupils dilated! Prepare ECMO!"
Voices. Muffled. Alien. Floating in and out.
White light swallowed his vision.
Am I dying?
Dying on the night Russ proved himself all over again?
No… I don't want to die like this. Not before I see him lift that championship trophy.
Then—a holographic blue screen bloomed across his vision.
[INTENSE OBSESSION DETECTED]
[BASKETBALL SOUL SYSTEM ACTIVATING]
[YOU MAY CARRY ONE CURRENT PLAYER'S ABILITY INTO A PARALLEL WORLD]
[SELECTION COUNTDOWN: 20... 19... 18...]
Parallel world?
Rebirth? A second chance... in another world?
His mind sharpened through the pain. LeBron's dominance? Curry's shot? But when his name appeared, Ryan's fading focus locked on.
"Russell Westbrook…" Blood bubbled in his throat. "The… the relentless 0."
[SELECTION CONFIRMED]
[LOADING TEMPLATE: RUSSELL WESTBROOK (2016–2017 MVP TRIPLE-DOUBLE SEASON)]
[INITIATING TRANSFER...]
[CALIBRATING SPACETIME COORDINATES...]
The pain vanished like a receding tide. Something else took its place—a pressure, a force, a flood of energy. It surged through every nerve ending like a bomb about to go off.
Then—darkness.