Voices filtered through the walls like angry jazz.
"Basketball, Marco. He said basketball. Like it's a viable career and not something people do while waiting for their real job to start."
"He's not hurting anyone, Reina. It's not like he said professional chainsaw juggler. It's a sport."
"We're talking about a child who hasn't jogged since the Obama administration."
"I'm just saying maybe we give him space—"
"You always say that and look where it gets us. Glitter in the dishwasher! That weird comic book phase! And now BASKETBALL—"
Meanwhile, Darius lay on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it might spell out the next move. He wasn't listening to the argument anymore.
He was thinking about the court.
The lights. The rhythm. The feeling of time slowing down right before a clean crossover.
His breathing slowed.
Then—
[Reflex Core Online][Player Profile: Darius Navarro / Kai Monroe Sync Confirmed][Time Until High School Season: 12 Weeks][Skill Development Plan: Activated]
Speed: 1/10 Stamina: 1/10 Strength: 1/10 Vertical: 1/10 Ball Handling: 1/10 Coordination: …pending update
A soft blue interface hovered into view.
[Daily Objectives — Phase One]
20 push-ups (in a row, no cheating)
2 minutes plank (contemplating past life optional)
Wall sit until your thighs file a formal complaint
Light cardio: jog until your organs feel like roommates again
Visualization drill: 15 minutes of silent mental reps (includes remembering how to dribble)
[Note: Completion of daily objectives unlocks skill nodes.]
Pending Unlocks: – Balance Boost – Court Vision (lvl 1) – Vertical Recovery – Muscle Memory Return (partial)
[Challenge accepted? Y/N]
Darius stared for a beat.
"…Let's get my get-back."
[Challenge: Accepted.]
No alarms. No cheers. Just a single notification:
[Progress: 0% — Time to work.]
Ten minutes later, he was already halfway through his third set of shaky push-ups, sweat blooming on his forehead like guilt in confession.
That's when Mom and Dad knocked and entered. Together. Always a bad sign.
They stepped in. Stopped.
And stared.
Darius, drenched, mid-wall-sit, legs trembling, eyes locked on a point above his bed like he was squatting for salvation.
"…Honey," Mom said, "what are you doing?"
"Either working out… or glitching," Marco whispered.
Reina frowned. "This is exactly why I said we shouldn't let him have screen time again."
From down the hall, Grandma Ofelia called out:
"THIS is what happens when you're too soft with boys! They start squatting in the dark like confused kangaroos!"
Darius didn't pause.
"I meant what I said," he said through clenched teeth.
Mom crossed her arms. "That you want to play basketball for a living?"
"Yes."
"And… why, exactly?"
"Because it's all I've ever wanted. It's what I'm meant to do."
She blinked, trying not to say something regrettable like "You were meant to do homework and maybe become an accountant."
Dad stepped in. "Son, we just want to understand. This kind of came out of nowhere, and—"
"No, it didn't," Darius said, finally breaking his wall sit and standing straight, breath heaving. "It's always been there. Maybe not for him, but it was there for me."
They both stared.
Dad blinked. "What does that mean?"
"…Nothing." Darius picked up the towel beside him, wiped his face, and looked them in the eye.
"I'm doing this. No more doctors. No more safe plans. No more pretending."
Mom opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
Then opened it again, but nothing came out except the thinnest sigh and a heavy blink.
Dad nodded slowly. "Well... alright. Let's see where this goes."
Reina turned to him. "Oh great. You just gave him a free pass to join the circus."
"Better the circus than the couch."
In the hallway, Grandma shouted, "He better be dating Jesus to be sweating like that!"
Darius smiled.
...
Three weeks in, the Navarro household had adjusted to the fact that Darius—who once couldn't fold a hoodie without throwing a tantrum—was now up before sunrise, drenched in sweat, and muttering things like "core engagement" and "visual discipline."
It started with curiosity.
Then it shifted into suspicion.
And by week three? Routine.
Every morning, he was out in the backyard before the sun knew what was happening—jumping rope, doing dribbling drills with a half-flat ball he found behind the washing machine, sprinting laps until the neighbor's dog decided they were rivals.
His mom still thought it was a phase.
She watched him silently from the kitchen window with her coffee every morning, mumbling things like "He'll grow out of it" or "He's just trying to avoid chores." But every time she looked again, there he was.
Grinding.
One push-up stronger than yesterday.
One second longer on the plank.
One step closer to—something even she couldn't name.
(A week ago)
Late afternoon. The blender's roaring. Something green and questionably thick spins inside like it owes Reina Navarro money.
Darius leans on the counter, still in his training hoodie, sweat damp and all determination.
"Ma."
She doesn't look up. "Hm?"
"…I need a basketball."
She stops blending. Slowly.
Turns.
Raises one eyebrow. The one that's seen too much parenting to be fazed anymore.
"A what now?"
"A ball," he says. "Like. A basketball. So I can actually train with something besides air and hope."
She crosses her arms. "Didn't you just come back from a coma? You already want equipment?"
"You let Tito order infrared toe separators on the family Prime account."
"That's a medical purchase—"
"No it's not."
She sighs. "Darius. Let's talk plainly. I love that you're motivated. I love that you're moving and eating and shouting motivational speeches at 6 AM like a boy in a protein commercial. But this whole basketball thing? You've barely started."
He straightens. "I'm serious."
"Then prove it."
"I am—"
"I don't mean sit-ups. I mean school."
He hesitates.
She smirks. "You get an A on your next math quiz—just one—and I'll buy you that ball. A good one. No street-corner plastic. Deal?"
Darius nods slowly. "Deal."
"Then start studying, champ."
System Report – Week 3:
Physical Traits: – Strength: Level 3 – Stamina: Level 4 – Speed: Level 2 (sprint still includes wheezing)
Mental Attributes: – Focus: Level 4 – Resilience: Level 5 – Patience: …developing (twin-related delays)
Locked Traits: – Ball Control: ❌ – Reflex Loop Mapping: ❌ – Zone Awareness: ❌
Basketball Required for Unlock.
But the grind wasn't the only part of his new life.
Since he still hadn't rejoined school yet—Mom "wanted to let the brain marinate"—he'd unintentionally become the in-house adult.
He walked Luna and Lexi home from school every day. Which sounded cute.
It wasn't.
They screamed. They skipped. They argued about whose invisible unicorn was faster. One of them cried because a bee "looked sarcastic." The other tried to sell his hoodie to a squirrel. Darius aged a decade on each walk.
At home, Grandma Ofelia rotated between blasting Spanish soap operas and loudly blaming Darius's "rebirth" on internet demons. She called his smoothies "witch potions" and once smacked a jump rope mid-swing.
Meanwhile, Uncle Tito—permanently reclined on the living room couch—had become one with the upholstery. He was technically alive but functioned more like a sentient pile of laundry. His sock-pile was actively expanding.
Darius handled it all.
He vacuumed. He cooked. He reminded his dad not to microwave metal (again). He told Jamal to stop beatboxing with the kettle. He broke up three glitter wars and one deep philosophical debate about lollipops vs. popsicles.
At fourteen, he had become both the youngest and most responsible grown-up in the house.
"This isn't training," he muttered while wiping juice off the ceiling. "This is a psychological conditioning drill dressed as domestic chaos."
But every night, when it was quiet—when the moonlight slid through the blinds and the world finally exhaled—he'd open the Reflex Core, check his progress, and whisper:
"I'm getting it back."
And little by little… he was.