The first sound that pulled him from sleep was not an alarm, but the creak of the stairwell and a woman's voice drifting up from below.
"Zhelin, breakfast is ready. Don't make me call twice."
Lin Bei blinked at the ceiling, his body heavy against the mattress. The voice was too gentle, too familiar, and for a moment he forgot where he was. His mind reached instinctively for his old room, a narrow dorm with peeling paint, the hum of the laptop fan still running beside his pillow.
Instead, the faint scent of congee and steamed buns slid through the half-opened door, filling the wide bedroom around him.
It had been three days, but every morning still began like this: the shock of realizing he wasn't Lin Bei anymore.
He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. The mirror across from the bed caught a long-limbed stranger. The reflection startled him again, even though he had stared at it enough times already. Broad shoulders. A frame so tall he had to duck slightly when passing through the doorway. His fingers brushed over the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth skin that wasn't his.
The first time he had touched that face, he had half-hoped it was a dream. Now, there was no denying it.
The floorboards groaned under his steps as he crossed to the bathroom. Cold water splashed over his cheeks, dripping down to the collar of his shirt. He leaned forward on the sink, staring into the mirror as though it might crack and give him back his old life.
Instead, the reflection only stared back, Wang Zhelin's reflection.
A voice barked from downstairs, this one far firmer.
"Zhelin! Don't dawdle."
His shoulders stiffened. That commanding tone didn't need repeating.
He tugged a loose T-shirt over his long torso and padded down the stairs.
The dining room was already set. His father sat at the table with a newspaper folded in one hand, chopsticks resting across his bowl. A faint crease pulled between his brows as he read. His mother moved quietly in the kitchen, placing another basket of steamed buns on the counter.
Lin Bei lowered himself onto the bench, trying not to stare. The man at the table wasn't just any father. Wang Changhai's presence filled the room even in silence. The stories said he had once carried Fujian's colors on his back, a center who had bruised and battled in packed gyms before Lin Bei had even picked up a controller to play NBA 2K.
"Eat," his mother said softly, pushing a bowl of porridge toward him.
He obeyed. The spoon trembled faintly in his fingers. His heart hadn't adjusted yet to the strange warmth of family life. In his old world, meals had been quick affairs, instant noodles at a cluttered desk, maybe shared hotpot with classmates when exams ended. Here, the table felt heavier, anchored by unspoken expectations.
The newspaper rustled as his father turned a page.
"The Fujian team lost again," he muttered. "Twenty-four losses this season. A disgrace."
Lin Bei risked a glance. The headline on the sports section glared in bold type. He lowered his gaze quickly, scooping more porridge.
His father set the paper down, finally looking at him.
"You've grown again. Taller."
There was no humor in his voice, only assessment, as though his son's body were another stat line to measure. Lin Bei forced a nod, unsure if he should answer.
Silence lingered until his mother broke it, reaching to peel an orange.
"It's good, isn't it? To grow strong."
The tension eased slightly. His father grunted, picking up the paper again.
Lin Bei let out a slow breath. Each small moment, the stern voice, the newspaper headlines, the simple breakfast, reminded him that this wasn't a dream. He had inherited not just the body of Wang Zhelin, but the weight of everything around him: a family steeped in basketball, a city watching its team falter, a father who measured worth in rebounds and wins.
And he, an ordinary fan from another world, had to live inside it.