The night was a jagged, merciless thing, its cold sinking into Elijah Reed like teeth into flesh. The streets shimmered faintly under the stuttering glow of neon signs—pawn shops and liquor stores casting their garish light across wet pavement, slick from a drizzle that had lingered for hours, too stubborn to let up. His boots splashed through shallow puddles as he pulled his battered leather jacket tighter around himself, the damp seeping through the worn seams. The chill clawed at his skin, but it was a fleeting discomfort compared to the hollow ache that had taken root in his chest years ago, a permanent resident he couldn't evict. At forty, he was a man unmoored, a shadow of the kid who'd once believed the world was his to conquer. Another shift at the auto repair shop had left his hands cracked and raw, the stench of oil and grease baked into his pores—a second skin he couldn't shed, a tattoo of a life he'd never wanted.
His mind drifted as he walked, as it always did when the world grew quiet enough to let the ghosts slip through. Basketball. The word alone was a fist around his heart, squeezing until it hurt to breathe. It had been everything once—his pulse, his fire, the rhythm that kept him alive. Back in high school, he'd been a name on the wind, a whisper among scouts and coaches. Fast. Agile. A kid with a jumper that could sing and a crossover that left defenders grasping at air. College recruiters had filled the bleachers at his games, their pens scratching futures onto clipboards, their murmurs promising a path to something bigger. He'd tasted it—the roar of the crowd, the weight of the ball in his hands, the dream of hardwood under stadium lights. But fate had a cruel sense of humor. Sophomore year at college, one wrong pivot, and his knee had folded like cheap paper. The crack of ligament tearing still echoed in his skull, a sound that woke him some nights, slick with sweat and screaming. The doctors had been blunt: "You're done, son. No more ball." And they'd been right.
He'd tried to hold on. Coached a high school team for a while, barking drills to kids who'd never know what he'd lost. Scribbled breakdowns of NBA plays for a blog no one read. Watched every game he could stomach, remote clutched like a lifeline. But it was torture—each highlight a mirror reflecting the life he should've had, each dunk a reminder of the body he'd betrayed. The bitterness had festered, hollowing him out until he was just a shell, a man who fixed cars and drank alone and wondered where it all went wrong.
The crosswalk loomed ahead, the red hand glowing like a warning. Elijah stopped, his breath fogging in the damp air, his thoughts a tangle of regret. Then came the sound—tires shrieking against wet asphalt, a banshee wail that sliced through the night. His head snapped up, heart slamming into his ribs. There, in the road, a boy stood frozen, no older than five, his tiny frame swallowed by the glare of headlights barreling toward him. The car was too fast, its tires skidding, hydroplaning out of control. Elijah didn't think. He just moved.
His legs churned, boots pounding pavement, arms reaching as time stretched thin. The world sharpened into fragments: the boy's wide, glassy eyes, brimming with terror; the gleam of the car's chrome grille, a predator's maw; the thud of his own pulse, deafening in his ears. He lunged, shoving the kid aside with every ounce of strength he had left, a desperate heave that sent the child tumbling to safety. Then the impact—bone-crushing, earth-shattering. It lifted him, a fleeting weightlessness, before hurling him back to the ground. Pain erupted, a white-hot supernova consuming him. His body skidded across the asphalt, tearing skin, snapping something deep inside. Neon lights smeared into streaks above him, a kaleidoscope bleeding into black. The boy's sobs cut through the haze, faint and fading, until silence swallowed everything.
Elijah jolted awake, gasping, expecting the sterile sting of antiseptic and the beep of machines tallying his survival. Instead, humid air pressed against his skin, thick and heavy, and a cracked ceiling fan whirred lazily overhead. He blinked, disoriented, his head pounding—not with the sharp agony of a broken body, but with a strange, buzzing fullness. The room was small, its walls stained with time, lit by a single bulb flickering in a chipped fixture. A twin bed creaked beneath him, sheets tangled around legs that felt… wrong. Too light. Too short.
Panic clawed up his throat. He shot upright, hands flying to his chest, his arms, his face—searching for the wreckage of the crash. Nothing. No blood, no bruises, no jagged edges of bone. His fingers trembled as they brushed smooth skin, unscarred and unfamiliar. His hands—God, his hands—were small, slender, the calluses from decades of wrenches and grease gone, replaced by the soft palms of youth. His breath hitched, ragged and shallow, as he stumbled out of bed, legs wobbling like a newborn colt. He lurched toward a mirror propped in the corner, its frame chipped and leaning precariously against the wall.
The face staring back wasn't his.
A boy—fourteen, maybe—gaped at him, brown eyes wide with the same shock tearing through Elijah's chest. Short, barely 5'5", with a wiry frame and a mop of dark, messy hair. His skin was pale, almost ghostly under the dim light, his jaw soft where Elijah's had been hardened by years. This wasn't him. This couldn't be him.
"No way…" His voice cracked, high and unsteady, a stranger's timbre. "What the hell is this?"
He touched his cheek, and the reflection mirrored him, a puppet on invisible strings. His knees buckled, and he gripped the dresser to stay upright, his mind racing to catch up. Was he dead? Dreaming? Trapped in some fevered limbo? Then it hit—memories, sharp and vivid, flooding in like water through a burst dam, drowning him in their weight.
Elijah Reed. Fourteen. Freshman at a Chicago high school. 1995.
1995?
He staggered back, clutching his skull as the tide surged. Two lives collided—his past, his present, twisting into a knot he couldn't untangle. He'd been forty, hadn't he? In 2024, a washed-up mechanic with a limp and a lifetime of could-have-beens? He'd died—died—saving that kid, the car's grille the last thing he'd seen. But here he was, alive, young, in a body that wasn't his own. Reborn? Transported? The words felt absurd, but what else could explain it?
The new memories unfurled like a film reel he hadn't asked to watch. A modest house on Chicago's South Side, paint peeling from the porch. A single mom—Martha Reed—her hands rough from night shifts at the hospital, her smile a quiet strength that held their world together. The name slammed into him, a gut punch. Martha. His mom from before, the one who'd cheered at his games, who'd cried when the doctors gave their verdict. This Martha looked like her—same deep brown eyes, same lines carved by worry and love, same voice calling him to dinner. It was eerie, a thread of familiarity in a life that felt stolen.
Basketball was here too, woven into this Elijah's bones, but it was different. This kid wasn't a star. He was a benchwarmer, a shadow on his team, quick but frail, heart bigger than his skill. Teammates ignored him, coaches glanced past him, his name absent from any scouting list. He'd spent hours watching Jordan soar, Hardaway dazzle, Olajuwon dominate, dreaming of their greatness while his own games ended in splinters—missed shots, turnovers, the sting of being too small, too weak. The frustration was a living thing, clawing at him, a mirror to the regret of Elijah's old life.
But then there was the other half—the man he'd been. Two decades of basketball knowledge pulsed in his skull: the rise of the three-point era, the analytics revolution, the shift to pace-and-space offenses. He knew how the game would bend, how stars like Kobe and Duncan would redefine it, how the NBA would shed its old skin for something sleeker, sharper. He'd lived it, studied it, mourned it from the sidelines. And now, standing in 1995, he held a map no one else could see.
Before he could wrestle the chaos into sense, a voice cut through his head—cool, mechanical, impossibly clear.
[Ding! NBA 2K System Activated.]
Elijah froze, breath snagging in his throat. The room was silent but for the fan's hum, yet the sound rang inside him, undeniable.
[Welcome, Player. You have been granted access to the NBA 2K System. This system will assist you in reaching the pinnacle of basketball greatness. Would you like to view your current attributes?]
His mouth went dry, pulse hammering. A game system? Like NBA 2K, the video game he'd played obsessively in his old life, grinding stats for virtual glory? This was insane—hallucination, madness, a trick of a fractured mind. But the voice waited, patient, expectant.
"Yeah," he croaked, barely audible. "Show me."
A holographic screen flared to life before his eyes, blue and shimmering, stats scrolling in crisp text.
Player: Elijah Reed
Age: 14
Height: 5'5" (170 cm)
Weight: 102 lbs (46 kg)
Physical Attributes:
Strength: 35/100
Agility: 35/100
Stamina: 40/100
Vertical Jump: 35/100
Basketball Attributes:
Ball Handling: 35/100
Passing: 35/100
Defense: 35/100
Steal: 35/100
Block: 25/100
Rebounding: 20/100
Post Defense: 20/100
Perimeter Defense: 30/100
Shooting:
Free Throw: 40/100
Midrange Shot: 30/100
Layup: 40/100
Dunk: 0/100
3-Point Shot: 20/100
Shooting off the Dribble: 25/100
Elijah stared, a bitter laugh bubbling up. These were rookie numbers—scrub numbers. Weak. Slow. A kid who'd be lucky to touch the court, let alone shine on it. But beneath the sting, a spark flared. If this was a game, then stats could climb. Skills could sharpen. He could grow.
In his old life, he'd lost everything to chance—a fluke injury, a twist of fate. He'd drowned in what-ifs, replaying every moment he could've been more. But this? This was a reset, a do-over with cheat codes baked in. His hands curled into fists, nails biting his palms. He could feel it—the hunger, the fire he'd thought was dead, flickering back to life.
The system chimed again.
[New Player Quest: First Step to Greatness!]
Objective: Make 100 successful shots (layups, midrange, or three-pointers).
Reward: +3 to Shooting Off the Dribble, +2 to Midrange Shot, +1 to 3-Point Shot.
A path. A tangible start. Elijah's lips twitched into a grin, shaky but real. He didn't know how he'd gotten here—death, rebirth, some cosmic glitch—but he knew one thing: he wasn't wasting it. Not this time.
The room was still, the night pressing in, but inside him, a storm was brewing. He'd been broken once, left to rot in a life of oil stains and regret. Now, at fourteen, in 1995, with a system humming in his head and a ball waiting somewhere in this house, he had a shot. A second chance to claim the dream that had slipped through his fingers.
He wouldn't let it go again.