The room was crowded with voices, warmth, and way too many opinions.
Darius blinked awake to a wall of strangers. People smiling, tearing up, praying—some even hugging like it was the end of a Disney movie. The air buzzed with joy and disbelief.
Someone passed a paper cup of ginger ale like it was holy water. Abuela held his hand with both of hers, murmuring a quiet prayer just under her breath.
But Darius wasn't listening.
Because floating in front of him, glowing and unreadable to everyone else, was a pulsing screen.
[Reflex Core: Session Restored][Welcome to Phase 3: System Claim Protocol][Would you like to bind to the system? Y/N]
He blinked. "No."
"¿M'ijo?" his grandmother leaned closer. "You say something?"
[Selection: Rejected][Confirm again. This is a one-time invitation. Bind to the Reflex Core?]
"No," he said, more firmly.
Everyone froze.
His mother gave a little laugh. "Honey, what do you mean, 'no'? No what?"
[Rejection detected. Consequences pending.][Warning: Remaining unbound leads to cognitive collapse and host expiration.]
Darius clenched his jaw. "You're bluffing."
Silence in the room.
Then: "Who's bluffing?" asked his dad, glancing nervously between him and the monitor, which—let's be honest—was not even on.
[System Response: Not bluffing.][Final prompt: Accept Reflex Core… or die.]
Darius shot up in bed, voice cracking. "I don't want to die, alright?!"
The room gasped like someone hit a dramatic pause button on a soap opera.
His aunt dropped her purse. His cousin stepped behind a curtain. A nurse poked her head in just to nope out five seconds later.
"Doctor," his mom said, panic creeping into her voice, "why is he saying he's going to die?! Is this normal?! Is this recovery?!"
"I—I mean, sometimes patients come out disoriented," the doctor offered weakly. "It's possible he's confused about where he is—"
"He's arguing with air," his dad said.
"He thinks air is threatening him," his aunt added.
"And he's talking back like it's a group project," someone mumbled.
[System Binding Complete.][Welcome back, Kai Monroe. Host Identity: Darius Navarro][Integration Success Rate: 64%... give or take your next breakdown.]
The glow faded.
Darius exhaled, leaned back into the bed.
And then remembered—again—that everyone was still staring.
His grandmother leaned in, eyes squinting like she might find the devil in his pupils. "Baby," she said slowly, "…are you seeing people?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
"I'm fine."
"You just yelled 'I DON'T WANT TO DIE' at the ceiling."
"…It was a very intense dream?"
"Oh God," his mom whispered. "Do we call someone? Like… a priest?''
The room was still tense from the earlier outburst, but the doctor stayed calm—too calm, like she'd been briefed on much weirder before stepping into this family sitcom.
She closed the patient file slowly, then addressed them in that soft, professional voice reserved for delivering both wisdom and weirdness.
"Darius might be experiencing neurological misfires," she said gently. "It's not uncommon after such a long-term coma. The brain sometimes reintegrates memory, imagination, and perception in… unexpected ways."
"Unexpected," his father repeated, deadpan. "Like yelling at the ceiling and swearing he's gonna die?"
"Or negotiating with an imaginary voice," added a cousin quietly.
The doctor didn't flinch. "It's not normal, no. But it's not unheard of, especially for teenagers. His cognition is essentially rebooting. He might experience hallucinations, heightened emotional responses, or disassociation for a little while."
"So what do we do?" his mother asked, already looking slightly defeated. "Should we pray harder? Feed him vitamin C? What?"
"Support him," the doctor replied. "Don't dismiss what he says. He might actually believe he's experiencing something very real. And until his brain calms, reality may be... subjective."
Abuela was already nodding solemnly. "So we keep praying."
"And just... go along with it?" his father asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
"For now," she said. "Help him feel safe. Familiar faces, familiar routines—it might all help him re-center. The worst thing you can do is make him feel broken."
From across the room, Darius muttered under his breath, "Too late."
[Reflex Core Log: Host exhibiting sarcasm. Defense mechanism confirmed. Emotional resilience… in progress.]
He groaned softly, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and whispered to no one, "You're not helping."
And of course, no one else heard that part—except Abuela, who immediately resumed whisper-praying faster.
...
The hospital room was finally empty. No relatives, no doctors. Not even the janitor with the squeaky cart. Just the soft beep of machines and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights.
Darius Navarro stared at the ceiling, breathing slow and shallow. Alone.
"...System," he said under his breath. "Switch on."
The space around him didn't change, but a soft chime rang in his head like a ripple in silence.
[Reflex Core: Online][Welcome back, Kai Monroe.]
A faint blue glow hovered before him, translucent and perfectly still. No one else could see it. No one else ever had.
He sat up slightly, voice low. "Was that really me? Kai Monroe?"
[Affirmative. Former identity: Kai Monroe. Athlete ID 44329. Position: Point Guard. Status: Deceased — May 16, 2015, 8:42 PM.]
The words hit like a falling weight. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
"...2015," he repeated. "That's ten years ago."
[Correct. You have been deceased for one decade, three weeks, and two days.]
His fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. The room felt colder now. Smaller.
"Why am I here?" he asked quietly. "Why... this body? Why Darius?"
The system pulsed once. Almost gently.
[Reason: Undefined. Conditions met. Outcome: Second chance.]
He stared at the glow like it might offer more. It didn't.
[This system exists to serve the directives of its bonded host. Kai Monroe's core objective remains unchanged.][Goal: To become the greatest basketball player to ever live.]
"…Right," he whispered. "That."
The system hovered silently in front of him. Waiting.
He didn't speak for a long time. Then, with a slow breath:
"System... turn off."
[Interface closed.]
The glow vanished.
He was alone again.
Only now, the silence was heavier.
His gaze slipped to the wall, but he didn't really see it. He saw hardwood. Courts. Lights. Moments. He remembered sweat and sneakers and buzzer-beaters. He remembered flight. That last jump. The rim. The fall.
And beneath it all— Regret, slow and creeping. Thick as the hospital sheets wrapped around someone else's arms.
His chest rose, then fell.
And for the first time since waking up, he didn't want to move at all.