A sharp rip tore through the silence, a single page fluttering to the floor, forgotten.
"Nah, this isn't good enough," Ren muttered to himself, eyes narrowed at his work. "Needs to be simpler but more detailed… somehow."
The scratch of his mechanical pencil filled the room, his hand moving over the paper as rough shapes appeared, morphing and shifting until they began to take form.
The room was cramped, cluttered with a double bed, two tables shoved together, and various knick-knacks spread across every surface. An air conditioner hummed in the background, headphones blasted music in his ears, and the glow of his laptop illuminated practice papers on the screen. Books and notebooks sprawled across the tables, making the tiny room feel even smaller. But to Nishad, it didn't matter; he was in his element.
"Yeah, that's looking decent. A few more details, and…" He grinned to himself, satisfied, even though no one was there to hear him. He shut the sketchbook with a decisive thud and shoved it into his cupboard.
With a sigh, he returned to his desk, picking up where he'd left off with his studies. But it didn't take long for his eyelids to grow heavy, and soon, his head rested on the desk, his breathing slow and steady.
The sleep was warm, comforting somehow—until, suddenly, he felt it. A familiar dread crept over him, the kind that prickled the back of his neck. He felt frozen, unable to move, as he looked up and saw headlights piercing through the darkness. A truck was barreling toward him.
Wait… why does this feel like déjà vu?
He wanted to move, to shout, but he was paralyzed, gripped by the fear of being crushed. The truck bore down, closer and closer—until a sharp screech of tires filled his ears. Heart pounding, Nishad opened his eyes to find the truck halted mere inches in front of him, headlights glaring. The driver's door clicked open.
Thoughts flooded his mind: Where am I? What's happening? Why is there a truck here, like some weird isekai setup? Am I… dead?
He squinted as a figure stepped out, backlit by the blinding lights.
As the person approached, Ren felt a surge of panic. I need to get out of here, fast. He prepared himself for the worst.
The figure crouched down, revealing himself—a tall man with a shaved head, a dark complexion, and a bright yellow basketball jersey emblazoned with the number "24" and the word "Lakers."
"It's too soon for you, son," the man said, his voice warm and rich.
"What the—" Ren stared, his mind reeling. That jersey… it looks familiar… Wait. No way.
It was Kobe Bryant.
Ren's mouth went dry. Kobe Bryant? He'd watched the man's motivational videos a dozen times, but seeing him here—like this—felt surreal.
"What's that look, kid?" Kobe's voice was amused.
"Oh, sorry… my bad," Ren mumbled, still in shock.
Kobe grinned. "No worries. Here, let me help you up." He reached down, extending a hand. Ren took it and got to his feet.
"Where… where even is this place?" he asked, looking around. The world around them was pitch-black, a void stretching in every direction, save for Kobe, the truck, and himself.
Kobe's gaze softened. "This is the final ride—the last journey of a person's life."
"Wait… are you saying I'm dead?" Ren stammered. "I was just alive a second ago…."
Kobe chuckled softly. "Relax, kid. It's not your time yet. Seems there was a… hiccup. A rift in the space-time continuum."
"So… I can go back? I haven't even played White Myth: Mukong yet," Ren blurted, scratching his head. He laughed awkwardly, realizing how absurd he sounded. Most people would probably think about their families in a situation like this, but here he was, worried about the games he hadn't played and the novels he hadn't read.
Kobe raised an eyebrow, glancing above Ren's head as though he could read something invisible. After a moment, his expression grew serious. "Looks like only your core soul got caught up in the rift, breaking your connection with your body."
This doesn't sound right. Maybe I should just play along, Ren thought, watching Kobe closely.
"Got any ideas on how to fix this?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
Kobe seemed to relax, glancing above Ren's head again. After a long silence, his expression brightened. "There's a place… a similar situation happened there. The soul was young, though, and didn't last. If you're willing, you could take his place and let him rest in peace."
What? I was asking for a way back, not to swap lives with some random soul. Suspicious, Ren hesitated, trying to process the offer.
Before he could respond, Kobe placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, his voice turning gentle. "I know it'll be tough, kid. There'll be times you wish you could quit, but I believe in you. With the Mamba mentality, you'll push through anything life throws at you. Work hard, make your mark, and live a life without regrets."
Ren swallowed, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. "What… what are you even talking about?"
He wanted to ask more, but before he knew it, Kobe was already back at the truck door.
"This time, don't sweat the small stuff," he said, turning back with a small smile. "I believe in you."
With that, Kobe climbed into the truck, the engine revving to life. He gave Ren one last nod, then drove off into the darkness.
Ren watched as the truck faded into the void, still reeling. What… what did I just experience? His thoughts spun wildly. I'm not even a basketball fan!
But as the truck disappeared, Ren felt his eyelids grow heavy, impossible to keep open. Now what? Can't I just go home? With one final thought, he closed his eyes, sinking back into darkness.
And then, pain—sharp and intense—cut through the void, throbbing in his skull. Did I just get a migraine? Damn it, Kobe!