The machines sang their cold lullaby—steady, indifferent, eternal. A rhythm of survival. A rhythm of waiting.
Then something shifted.
A flicker in the silence. A breath drawn where none had been before.
Che's eyes opened.
The ceiling above him was pale, sterile, humming with fluorescent light. His body felt like stone—heavy, foreign, unresponsive. Panic bloomed in his chest like wildfire. He tried to move, but his limbs refused. He turned his head slowly, painfully, scanning the room. Empty. No footsteps. No voices. Just the mechanical chorus of life on pause.
Where am I? What is this?
He looked down at his legs. Thin. Fragile. Not his. Just then, the door creaked open and a nurse stepped inside, arms full of supplies. Her eyes met his—and widened in disbelief. The tray slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor. She gasped, turned, and sprinted from the room.
Che tried to sit up. His muscles betrayed him. He collapsed back into the mattress, frustration burning behind his eyes.
Why am I here? What happened to me?
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time felt elastic. Then the door burst open again. The same nurse returned, this time with a doctor trailing behind her, urgency in every step. The doctor stopped at the foot of the bed, her face softening into something like relief. She exhaled—a long, trembling breath—and stepped forward.
"Hey there," she said gently, her voice like warm water over stone. "How are you feeling?"
Che stared at her, unsure how to answer.
"Do you know where you are?"
He nodded, barely.
"I'm doctor Greenwood, I've been your doctor, helping you while you've been in a comma for the last four years." she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "And I've been praying for this day. Seeing you awake… it's a miracle."
Her smile was tender, and something in it calmed the storm inside him. He nodded again, slower this time.
"I don't want you to worry about anything right now," she continued. "You need rest. We'll call your family. They'll be here soon. They never gave up on you."
She tapped his shoulder twice, then turned to the nurse.
Che's voice was hoarse, barely audible. "Excuse me… if you don't mind me asking. What exactly happened to me?"
The doctor hesitated. Then she leaned in, her eyes searching his face.
"Four years ago, you were playing in the street. A truck came out of nowhere. You were hit hard—head trauma, multiple surgeries. You've been in a coma ever since. We didn't think you'd make it. But your family… they believed. They never stopped believing. And now, here you are."
Che—no, Darius—closed his eyes. The name felt distant, like a coat he hadn't worn in years. His memories were fog. His past, a blank canvas. He turned to the nurse, voice trembling.
"I don't remember anything... I don't even know how old I am. I don't know what year it is."
She looked at him with quiet sorrow. "You're fourteen now," she said softly. "And it's 2028."
Darius nodded, accepting the truth like a stone sinking in water. The nurse left the room, and silence returned.
But sleep didn't come.
Instead, Darius found himself standing in a white void—endless, silent, alive. No walls. No ceiling. Just light. Soft. Humming. It felt like the inside of a heartbeat.
A figure emerged from the glow. Not human. Not machine. Something else. Its form shimmered like heat off asphalt, shifting between outlines—a silhouette of motion, energy, and memory.
[You've arrived,] it said, voice echoing in every direction. [Welcome to the Hustle System.]
Darius blinked. "What is this?"
[This is the threshold between who you were and who you must become. You were Che. Now, you are Darius. And I am here to guide your rebirth.]
The light rippled. A scene unfolded like a memory stitched into the air—Che sprinting down the court, Zayd chasing behind, the crowd rising to their feet. Che went for the layup, double-clutching midair, switching hands. Zayd soared for the block. Then—impact. A clash. A fall. Che's body twisted, spine cracking like thunder. Zayd hit the ground beside him.
Darius gasped. The pain echoed through him like a scream trapped in glass.
[That was your final moment,] the Hustle System said. [Your body broke. You passed on.]
Tears welled in Darius's eyes. "I remember… the game. The feeling. The fall."
[I offer condolences, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here because I want to help you. This boy—this body—is your second chance. Your dream of basketball isn't over. It's just beginning.]
"Why?" Darius whispered. "Why me?"
[You're not special, Darius. I chose you by chance. I've helped many across different universes. But never a basketball player. Consider yourself lucky.]
"So you're some kind of god? A reincarnator?"
[If that helps you sleep at night, sure.]
The Hustle System stepped closer.
[Let's focus. Your new body is fragile. Four years in a coma will do that. You're not the athlete you once were. But you have something else—something rare.]
A glowing panel appeared in the air.
[PROFILE UPDATED]
[Name: Darius Kingsley]
[Position: ???]
[Age: 14 years, 9 months]
[Weight: 135 lbs]
[Height: 4'4"]
[ATTRIBUTES]
Speed: 10
Acceleration: 9
Vertical: 3
Strength: 10
Stamina: 13
Ball Handling: 5
Passing Accuracy: 9
Mid-Range Shot: 8
Three-Point Shot: 4
Free Throw: 4
Driving Dunk: 0
Layup: 7
Perimeter Defense: 11
Steal: 8
Block: 5
Interior Defense: 8
[MENTAL ATTRIBUTES]
Basketball IQ: 55
Composure: 50
Consistency: 50
Leadership: 73
Work Ethic: 95
[Your mental game is strong,] the Hustle System said. [But your body and technique need rebuilding. That's where we begin.]
Darius stared at the numbers. His body was broken. But his mind? His heart? Unshaken.
[So here's my offer, Darius Kingsley.][Would you like help rebuilding your Hustle? Y / N]
A final prompt hovered in the air, glowing like a sunrise.
Darius took a breath. The memory of Che's final leap burned in his chest. The roar of the crowd. The silence that followed.
He nodded.
"Yes."