September 1, 2009. Durham, North Carolina. Dawn's first light seeped through the flimsy blinds of McLean Dormitory Room 214, painting faint streaks across the worn linoleum. Thiago Velásquez stirred under a thin Duke blanket, his 5'8" frame (165 pounds, lean as a South Side wire) coiled tightly in the too-big twin bed, as if still bracing for the chaos of Chicago's O Block. The air held a hint of morning dew and stale cereal, worlds away from the acrid bite of Englewood's summer streets, where gunshots punctuated the night. His hazel eyes flickered open, tracing the fresh tattoo on his forearm: September 15, 1985, Elena's quinceañera date, inked three weeks ago as a vow. Three weeks since I left the block. Feels like a dream… or a test.
His dorm corner was a shrine to survival: a stack of manga—Bleach, Ichigo's blade slashing through Hollows—piled beside a faded Kobe poster, mid-jumper. A battered basketball rested by the door, scarred from O Block courts where every bucket drowned out the jeers: "Pretty boy, soft voice—go draw your cartoons!" Across the room, his roommate's side was stark: Nolan Smith, Duke's junior guard, left a tidy stack of playbooks and a single photo of his family. Nolan was already out, likely running sprints before the 8 AM practice.
Thiago sat up, olive skin catching the dim glow, sharp cheekbones shadowed by a buzzcut. His chest tattoo—Elena's tired smile and Isabella's bright grin (10, a future runway star)—itched under his tank. O Block's my ghost, he thought. His father's absence loomed: gunned down in a '05 Black Disciples hit, leaving Elena, 42, a nurse with stress-etched lines where her quince beauty once shone. Am I here to hoop… or just outrun the graves?
A hum sparked in his skull, sharp as a rim's clang. The System. It hit three weeks ago, on graduation day, a jolt straight out of his manga-fueled escapes. Thiago's pulse raced, the memory surging like a Chicago wind.
Three Weeks Earlier—June 10, 2009. Englewood, Chicago. O Block.
The alarm screeched at 6:17 AM, a shrill buzz from Thiago's beat-up Nokia pulling him from sleep in the trailer's lone room. A tattered curtain split his mattress from Isabella's tiny bed, where she slept, curls splayed, a spark of stardom in her 10-year-old frame. The air was thick—90°F, the AC rattling like Elena's overworked lungs. Posters clung to cinderblock: MJ soaring, Naruto's Rasengan blazing. Thiago's havens: anime binges to mute the bruises (Fairy Tail, Natsu's fire his own), late-night reads of epic novels on a cracked phone, and pickup games on the block's broken asphalt, where a slam silenced the taunts.
Simeon Career Academy graduation. Thiago, B-average, 3-star recruit, had fought for this—his soft voice and delicate features made him a target, but his grit earned a Duke offer. He pulled on a worn Jordan tee, the forearm tat raw under a bandage. Isabella blinked awake. "Thiago? You're a king today, right? Mom's making tamales."
He grinned, chest tight. "For you, mija. Always." Elena, on night shift, would be home soon, her nurse scrubs stained with hospital ghosts. For them, he'd swear, sinking free throws. The walk to Simeon was a dodge: past corner boys' glares, over glass shards glinting like traps. The gym hummed—sweat, hope, cheap cologne. "Thiago Velásquez," the principal called, and he grabbed his diploma to faint cheers. Duke. Freedom.
Then—ding! A sound pierced his mind, like a ball rattling the rim. Thiago froze, diploma trembling. What's that? The crowd faded. A voice—high-pitched, impish, like a sprite from his novels—chimed in his head, playful with a dark twist.
"Hola, champ! Welcome to your big break—System's at 99%, nearly game-ready!"
Thiago's breath caught. Hola? "I… can also speak English," he muttered, voice low, scanning the gym—no portals, no glowing runes. Too much manga? "Who are you? Like those stories—heroes reborn with cheat powers?"
The voice—Gigi, it declared with a snort—giggled, sharp and cheeky. "Bingo, book nerd! I'm Gigi, your Basketball System Elf—think comedian with a stat obsession and a taste for dark jokes. Not quite a fantasy rebirth, but close. System's a one-shot deal, bailing after the gift. Me? I stick around to mock your misses. No instant-MVP nonsense—you grind years, O Block style."
Thiago leaned against a gym wall, cap crooked. Real? "What's the gift?"
Gigi's tone turned showy, like a carnival barker. "Ta-da! Michael Jordan Template—Freshman UNC, '81-82. 6'6", 195 pounds, SG, righty. Stats loading… beep beep."
Thiago's heart leapt. MJ? The legend? Dreams of dunks, rings, glory flashed. "Show me!"
Gigi laughed, edge biting. "Hold the confetti, kid. Not prime MJ—freshman MJ, raw and green. 78 OVR, 99 potential if you don't flop." A HUD flickered in his mind:
Michael Jordan – Freshman (UNC, 1981–82)
Height: 6'6" | Weight: 195 lbs | Position: SG | Handedness: Right
Offensive Attributes
Close Shot: 78 (95)
Mid-Range: 75 (99)
Three-Point: 65 (85)
Free Throw: 72 (90)
Post Fade: 68 (90)
Layup: 80 (98)
Dunk: 82 (99)
Ball Handle: 70 (92)
Passing Accuracy: 68 (88)
Defensive Attributes
Perimeter Defense: 76 (98)
Steal: 74 (97)
Block: 62 (80)
Interior Defense: 58 (75)
Defensive Rebound: 60 (78)
Athleticism
Speed: 82 (95)
Acceleration: 80 (95)
Vertical: 90 (99)
Strength: 68 (85)
Stamina: 85 (98)
Mental
Basketball IQ: 78 (99)
Clutch Factor: 75 (99)
Work Ethic: 80 (99)
Overall: 78 OVR | Max Potential: 99 OVR
Breaker Points: 1,050
Thiago reeled, gym air heavy. 78? Me? MJ's blueprint, but… Three-Point 65? Doubt clawed in. Guards are bombing threes now. I'll be a relic, stuck fading away. Coach K's my mentor, like Dad before the block ate him. I'll obey every call—stay a defender, never a star. "Gigi," he whispered, "this is a setup. Threes rule now. I'm too small, and MJ's template won't cut it."
Gigi's voice sharpened, playful but cutting. "Setup? Nah, it's a spark. You're 5'8" now, sure, but System's got a growth patch—five months, you're 6'6", 198cm, with a 219cm wingspan to snatch souls. And 1,050 breaker points? Max that Three-Point to 99 for 140, or save for later. Takes 1,040 to hit all 99s—10 left for your pity party. Coach K'll mold you, but don't be his puppet."
Thiago's eyes stung. 6'6"? 219cm wings? His skinny arms flexed, chest tat burning. I'll listen to K, but… what if I'm just a role player forever? "Gigi, this ain't fair. I'm no king—small ball'll bury me."
Gigi softened, just a touch. "Fair? O Block ain't fair, kid. Points for the grind—daily shots, rival checks. System's gone after this; I'm your heckler. Flop, and it's manga marathons in a dead-end job." The HUD faded, her chuckle a fading echo.
Thiago stood, diploma tight in hand, O Block's heat (94°F) pressing in. Elena's call buzzed: "Mijo, tamales for my king." Isabella chirped, "Hurry, Thiago!" 78 OVR. 1,050 points. A seed for El Rey.
Back in Durham. Thiago blinked, the memory dissolving. Nolan's playbook stack loomed. The hum returned—electric, final. Ding!
Gigi whooped. "System's live! MJ Template fused—feel it? 78 OVR, 1,050 breakers ready. Scan Nolan for funsies."
Thiago glanced at Nolan's bed. HUD flashed:
Nolan Smith – Junior (Duke, 2009-10)
Height: 6'2" | Weight: 185 lbs | Position: SG | Overall: 74 OVR | Potential: 79
Offense: Mid-Range 77 (83), Ball Handle 72 (82)… Defense: Perimeter 78 (80)… Mental: IQ 85 (88).
Rival already. Thiago grabbed his ball, soft voice steadying. For Elena. Isabella. My shot. "Practice at 8," he muttered, stepping into the humid dawn—70°F, Durham's promise heavy. Coach K waited. Gigi snickered: "Don't brick, El Rey, or I'm laughing loudest."