Three weeks after waking, Darius stepped out of the hospital and into the open air. He moved slowly, adjusting to the weight of his own body. His legs felt lighter than they had, but the movement still required focus. The sky above was pale blue, quiet and even. It didn't press down on him or ask him to feel anything. It was just there.
His body had changed. Not dramatically. Not in a way that anyone else would notice. But enough for him to feel the difference. He could breathe without bracing for pain. He could walk without needing to pause every few steps. He could complete the Hustle System's daily regimen without shaking halfway through.
The hospital gym had become familiar. It was tucked behind long corridors and machines that hummed without pause. He didn't go there to chase numbers or prove anything. He went there to recover.
Every morning, the System gave him a list: core stabilization, grip endurance, lateral movement, push-ups, wall sits, static holds. Each task came with a timer and a threshold. The machine didn't speak, but something inside him did. It asked the same question every time: Can you finish?
He didn't care about the metrics. He cared about finishing. In the first week, he failed most of the tasks. In the second, he finished half. By the third, he completed all of them. His stats improved, slowly but clearly. Strength moved from ten to twelve. Stamina climbed from thirteen to fifteen. Speed shifted from ten to eleven. Balance rose from nine to ten.
None of these numbers would impress a coach. They wouldn't earn him a scholarship or a highlight reel. But they were enough for him. Enough to feel like his body belonged to him again. Enough to know he could walk without fear. Enough to know he was no longer stuck in the silence that followed everything that happened with Che.
Now, he was going home.
Outside the hospital, his family waited in a borrowed van. The sides were covered in ribbons, and a sign painted by hand read: Welcome Back, Darius. The letters were uneven. The paint had started to flake. But the message was clear.
His mother stood by the passenger door. She was humming a tune she used to sing when he was younger. When she saw him, she opened her arms and smiled.
"You look taller," she said.
"I think the hospital stretched me," Darius replied.
His father leaned against the hood of the van. He was smiling, but the smile looked practiced.
"She's been pacing since sunrise," he said. "I told her you'd be fine, but she almost called the nurse just to double-check."
"I did not," his mother said, swatting his arm.
"You did," he said. "Twice."
Malik, his younger brother, was halfway out the window. He was playing music from his phone and waving a plastic flag that read: D-Rock Returns.
"I made you a playlist," Malik said. "First track is Eye of the Tiger. Second is Beyoncé. Third is a motivational speech from some guy named Coach Carter."
Darius raised an eyebrow. "That's a weird mix."
"Exactly," Malik said. "It's unpredictable. Like you. Also, I added a track of me saying 'You got this' on loop. It's art."
Darius didn't say much during the drive. The city passed by slowly. Buildings he recognized looked different now. Not because they had changed, but because he had. He smiled. The world felt warmer than it had before. Not just in temperature. In tone.
When they turned onto their street, he saw the crowd.
The driveway was packed. Neighbors. Friends. People he didn't recognize. They clapped. They cheered. They held signs and balloons. Their voices rose together.
His father stepped out first. His arms were open. His eyes were wet.
Darius climbed out of the van. The crowd responded with more noise.
He didn't feel like he was walking into a celebration. He felt like he was walking into something that had waited for him to return.
People hugged him. Some of them said his name. Some didn't. One woman held his hand and said, "We remember you enough for both of us."
Someone handed him a plate of food. Someone else gave him a cup of juice. A third person offered him cake.
"Eat," they said. "You're too skinny. We need to fatten you up before the next miracle."
A boy gave him a bracelet made of red and gold thread.
"It's for strength," the boy said. "I made it in art class. It's not perfect, but neither are we."
Another person handed him a folded note. It said: You're not alone.
He laughed. He danced. He let people see him. Not as a patient. Not as someone broken. Just as Darius.
They didn't expect him to remember their names. But they remembered his. Or Che's. Or the story that had grown between them.
Malik grabbed the mic from the DJ booth and shouted, "Okay, okay, real talk—Darius once beat me in FIFA with one hand. One hand! So don't let the hospital fool you. He's still a menace."
The crowd laughed. Darius shook his head.
"I let you win the rematch," he said.
"Lies!" Malik shouted. "He's back and still lying!"
The party lasted until the sky turned dark. The air smelled like grilled meat and frosting. People stayed longer than they planned to. No one wanted to leave first.
Eventually, his mother took his hand and led him inside. The house was quiet. The walls were lined with framed photos. The lights were low.
She walked him to his room. When she opened the door, he stopped.
The room was empty. With just the bed and a desk in the corner. The moonlight touched the floor.
His mother placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We wanted you to have space," she said. "To choose what goes in here."
He stepped back, nodding toward the room. "It's all yours, kiddo."
Darius nodded. He didn't cry. But something inside him shifted. Something that had been tight for weeks finally let go.
Later that night, he sat at the desk. The moonlight was the only light in the room. He looked around. He thought about the hospital. The System. The party. The silence.
It was all too much to name. Too much to control.
He didn't try to sort it out.
He whispered to himself, "Nah. Let's focus on that tomorrow."
Then he lay down, pulled the blanket over his body, and slept.