Pain.
It was the first thing Michael Schmidt felt.
Not physical. That had ended the moment his heart stopped beating on the hardwood floor. No, this was something deeper—a stabbing, aching emptiness that began where his chest had once clenched and spread through his entire soul. The roar of the crowd after his buzzer-beater still echoed in the back of his skull. Confetti had been falling. His teammates had been sprinting toward him.
Then everything went black.
And now—
He shot upright, gasping.
Sheets tangled around his legs. His chest rose and fell in a frenzy. Hands trembling. Sweat poured down his forehead as he whipped his head from side to side.
White walls.
Old wooden desk.
A poster of Tracy McGrady dunking on Shawn Bradley.
"What the hell—"
His voice cracked. It was too high.
He stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping on the pile of clothes beside it. Ran to the mirror on the door.
The face staring back was his—sort of. Younger. Less defined jawline. No stubble. Skin smoother.
No scars.
No surgical marks.
He gripped the edge of the desk, heart pounding—
Wait.
His heart was pounding. Not erratic. Not shallow. Not that terrifying flutter he'd lived with since age six. This was strong. Rhythmic. Stable.
He took a step back from the mirror, then another. A slow breath in. A deeper one out.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, okay, okay."
He turned. Grabbed the nearest phone he could find—an old Nokia.
No fingerprint sensor.
No apps.
No service.
Panicked, he found the calendar on the desk. The top read: September 2009.
He sat down hard, chair creaking under him. His thoughts raced.
How? Why?
Was this heaven? A dream? Some kind of... second chance?
He tried dialing—parents, coach, anyone.
No response.
No parents. No contact list. No sign they'd ever existed in this version of the world.
He was alone.
And yet, he wasn't crying. Not yet. He couldn't. Something else was building underneath the shock—a trembling, rising heat in his chest. He needed to move.
He grabbed the basketball near the foot of his bed. Palmed it like it weighed nothing. Walked outside.
The driveway was uneven. The hoop crooked. But it didn't matter.
He took a shot. Swish.
Then another. Then a stepback.
He wasn't winded. Not after ten minutes. Not after twenty.
And that's when he ran.
Sprinted down the block. Around the corner. Cut hard on the sidewalk and took off again.
No heart palpitations. No pain. Just speed. Power. Spring.
When he stopped, drenched in sweat, he was laughing.
Laughing and crying at the same time.
"I'm alive," he whispered, staring up at the sky. "And I can hoop."
It was only then that he heard the ding.
[SYSTEM BOOTING...]
A golden screen blinked into view, hovering in front of him.
[WELCOME, MICHAEL SCHMIDT.]
[CHOOSE YOUR TEMPLATE PLAYER:]
Three silhouettes appeared. One raised his hand in a smooth follow-through. Another soared through the air with long limbs extended. The third walked with a snarl, a predator in sneakers.
Michael didn't even need to read the names.
He pointed to the one in the center.
Michael Jordan.
A new window flashed:
[Height adjusted to host body: 6'9"]
[You have unlocked 1% of the Michael Jordan Template.]
[Begin training to progress.]
His heart, this perfect, strong heart, thundered with something that had never existed in his past life:
Possibility.
"Let's get it," he muttered.
And with the first grin of his new life, Michael Schmidt picked up the ball and walked back to the court.
He had work to do.