The ball felt right in his hands.
That was the only thing that felt right.
Because the rest of it—his dribbling, his form, his left-foot-right-foot coordination—was absolutely tragic.
The court echoed with the sound of bad bounces and self-doubt.
He dribbled off his foot. Twice. Accidentally passed the ball to a trash can. Missed so many layups the rim probably had abandonment issues.
But still—he kept going.
The Reflex Core flickered in the corner of his vision like an overenthusiastic coach with no volume setting:
[Reflex Core: Training Mode – Court Activated]
Skill Tree Access: Basic Ball Handling [UNLOCKED]Objective Loop: Complete on-court drills to earn upgrade points.
Today's Court Goals: – 5/10 successful right-hand dribbles – 3/10 crossover attempts (without tripping) – 0/20 free throws made – 1 basketball hit to the head (not a listed goal, but logged anyway)
Total XP Earned: 6.(Progress toward "First Step: Level 2" – 13%)
He gritted his teeth, bent his knees, and dribbled again. The ball bounced like it was trying to escape the concept of physics.
From the bleachers, a voice floated down like a ghost with a clipboard.
"You tryin' to swat mosquitoes or play basketball?"
Darius turned, startled.
It was one of the coaches. Hoodie. Clipboard. Cup of something warm and judgmental in his hand. Leaning against the railing like he was watching a low-budget comedy special.
Darius flushed. Went back to dribbling.
The coach chuckled, shook his head, and walked off, mumbling something about "kids these days" and "wannabe Kyries with foam ankles."
But Darius stayed.
Kept going.
He practiced until the sun dipped behind the backboard. Until the gym lights flickered and the echoes got lonely. Until the ball slipped through sweaty fingers and the rhythm finally felt… a little less foreign.
And then—
The janitor appeared.
A legend in paint-stained overalls, rolling a mop like a weapon of judgment.
"Well, well, well," he said, spotting Darius mid-shot. "If it ain't the spirit of basketball refusing to pass on."
Darius missed. Badly.
"Still alive, huh?" the janitor added. "Rim's up there cryin' for backup."
Darius bent to pick up the ball, breathing hard. "Just getting started."
The janitor leaned on his mop like it owed him money. "Son, I've seen pigeons with better form. And they're banned from the gym."
"…Noted."
"You keep shootin' like that, the scoreboard gonna file a restraining order."
Darius gave him a weak thumbs-up.
"Anyway, go home," the janitor said, already turning. "Before the ball sues you for emotional damage."
And yet—even as he limped to the locker room, shoulders sore, ball tucked beneath his arm—Darius felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Momentum.
And maybe just a little bit of respect from the floor beneath his feet.
The front door creaked open just past sunset.
Everyone looked up.
Darius stepped in, soaked in post-training sweat, backpack half-zipped, earbuds hanging like defeated noodles from his neck.
"Evening," he said, voice calm.
Then without a word—no hug, no eye contact, no twin-wrangling detour—he jogged past the living room, up the stairs, and disappeared into the hallway.
The sound of the bathroom door locking echoed like a punctuation mark.
Silence followed.
In the living room:
Reina blinked.
Marco casually sipped his tea like nothing was weird.
Grandma Ofelia, seated beneath the protection of her third rosary this week, turned slowly toward the parents.
She didn't say a word.
She just raised her eyebrows. Twice. Like judgment in Morse code.
Marco didn't look up. "He's just showering."
Another pause.
Grandma cleared her throat dramatically. Still no words.
Marco gave her a warning side-eye. "Don't start."
"I didn't say anything," Grandma said, shifting her rosary like she was tuning a frequency. "But if I had a grandson who spoke like he was narrating a documentary and sprinted past his family like a dramatic ghost… I might look into it."
"He's focused," Reina offered. "Motivated."
"He's possessed," Grandma corrected, pulling her shawl higher. "That boy jogged inside the house, Reina. Who jogs home to then jog up the stairs? That's not cardio, that's a cry for help!"
Marco shrugged. "I did the same thing once."
"You jogged?"
"No. I ignored your mother."
Grandma gasped like he'd kicked holy water.
And upstairs, behind a steamy bathroom door, Darius stood still—letting the hot water hit his face while the Reflex Core blinked softly into view.
[Day Complete – Trait Gains Applied] – Ball Control: 2/10 – Endurance: 5/10 – Determination: ...infinite
He exhaled. Smiled faintly.
Downstairs, Grandma whispered to herself, "Mm. Maybe it's a ghost with ambition."
...
(In the course of one month.)
Four weeks of drills, sweats, and whispered affirmations that no one but Reflex Core could hear.
The game had changed.
Darius could dribble now—comfortably. He could cut sharp on his left, dish a no-look pass without tripping over his own feet, and knock down a mid-range jumper with rhythm that didn't feel borrowed.
He looked good.
But he knew he wasn't there yet. Kai, at this stage of his old life, was dunking on players three years older and reading defenses like sheet music.
Darius was just getting started. But he hadn't missed a single day.
Jogging laps before sunrise while the system chirped:
Cross-drills after school as sweat poured and Grandma shouted,
Late-night visualization, headphones in, eyes closed, watching old plays unfold in his mind like ghost tape.
Backpack full of homework. Basketball bag heavier with purpose.
"You may not have your bounce yet," the Reflex Core intoned, "but you're starting to look like someone who could fly again."
...
(Trial day.)
And Darius was stuck in Mrs. Evans' social science class, where time was determined to crawl in protest.
He stared at the clock.
2:53 PM.
Seconds fell slower than raindrops made of molasses and regret.
"…Mr. Navarro," Mrs. Evans called from the whiteboard, "would you like to join us back on Earth?"
Darius blinked once, as if surfacing from a dream he didn't want to explain.
"Still here, ma'am."
She grinned. The kind of grin that said You have publicly challenged me and I shall now teach in vengeance.
"Well then. Perhaps you can answer the question since you've clearly achieved spiritual enlightenment in the back row."
A few students chuckled.
Darius sat up. "Sure."
Mrs. Evans tapped the board dramatically. "Explain the impact of industrialization on labor class mobility in post-World War economies. And do try not to cry."
Jamal, three rows up, snorted into his pencil case.
Darius didn't hesitate.
"Increased mechanization reduced the demand for low-skilled labor, which initially displaced workers—but long-term, it created upward mobility through new sectors like manufacturing management and logistics. Especially in Western economies that experienced reconstruction booms."
A pause.
The room blinked.
Mrs. Evans blinked.
Darius tilted his head. "Also, I'm pretty sure this isn't the unit you said would be on Friday's quiz."
"...It's not," she said slowly.
"Well then," Darius shrugged, glancing up at the clock again. 2:56 PM. "Can I spiritually re-ascend until three o'clock?"
Someone whispered, "Nooo way…"
Mrs. Evans smiled like a principal about to assign a two-page essay. "Fine. But you'd better float straight to practice after school."
"Oh, I plan to," he said, pulling his hoodie over his head.
Three minutes left.
Everything he'd built was about to be tested.