Boston General Hospital – 3:13 AM
Beeping.
That was the first sound.
Then fluorescent lights, white as snow and twice as cruel. The kind that didn't let you hide from anything.
Kyle Wilson's eyes fluttered open. Barely.
His whole body felt like it had been set on fire and then frozen.
His chest heaved once. Twice. Then the pain hit—like a wave crashing into his ribs and head all at once.
"Wh—Where am I…" he rasped.
A nurse turned quickly, startled. "He's awake! Get Dr. Hernandez!"
Footsteps pounded out of the room.
He blinked slowly, trying to sit up. Couldn't.
His arms trembled. Tubes were hooked into him—IV lines, a heart monitor, oxygen.
Through the fog of exhaustion, one memory surfaced:
The arena.
The roar.
The final shot.
The standing ovation.
Then… darkness.
And now? Sterile silence. Machines keeping rhythm with his heartbeat.
Waiting Room
