The blinding white lights of TD Garden faded into chaos.
"Kyle! Kyle!" Ari's voice cracked as she tried to shove past security. Her face twisted in panic, eyes welling with tears. "LET ME THROUGH! THAT'S MY—LET ME THROUGH!"
Jayson Tatum held Kyle's hand while medics checked his pulse, calling for an oxygen mask. The arena, a cathedral of sound just moments ago, was now silent—dead silent. You could hear sneakers scuffing the hardwood, the crackle of radios, and sobs from fans.
Jaylen Brown backed up, hands on his head. "This ain't right, man. This… This ain't supposed to happen."
Even Miami's bench stood still, shaken. Jimmy Butler paced with a blank stare, no trash talk, no bravado—just disbelief.
Coach Mazzulla's face was ghost-white. "Get the ambulance. Now."
Kyle's eyes fluttered for a moment—just once.
Then closed.
His body went limp.
The siren outside wailed.
Boston General Hospital – 2:27 a.m.
