Rain pattered softly against the grimy window of a small, dimly lit house. Thunder growled in the distance, low and angry, as if mourning something long lost. The windowpane trembled under each gust of wind, droplets streaking down like silent tears.
Inside, the flicker of a dying television cast pale shadows across peeling wallpaper and dust-covered picture frames. The furniture worn, sagging, and patched spoke of years not just lived in, but survived through. A cracked ceiling leaked into a rusted bucket. Drip… drip… drip. Each sound was a quiet reminder of how far things had fallen.
Slumped on a battered faux-leather couch was a man who looked twice his age.
Jordan Kai.
Once hailed as the Rising Sun of high school volleyball. A legend in the making. A name that had electrified gymnasiums and lit up regional headlines. Now, he was a shell of that promise.
A half-empty bottle of bargain whiskey dangled limply from one hand. In the other, a cigarette smoldered lazily between calloused fingers, its smoke curling into the musty air. The lines on his face were deeper than they should've been. His shoulders slouched like the weight of the world had finally broken them.
Only thirty. But he looked forty-five.
He sat in silence, eyes locked on the flickering screen in front of him.
It was a pro volleyball match. HD cameras panned across the court, capturing packed stadium seats, roaring fans, and the polished confidence of athletes in their prime.
One player leapt into the air.
His body curved mid-flight, graceful and explosive like a divine predator. A single beat of silence then BOOM he slammed the ball down with enough force to shake the screen.
The stadium erupted.
Jordan's lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace.
"Yeah…" he muttered, voice rough like sandpaper, "All six of them were gifted by the gods."
The commentator's voice blared through old speakers:
"And THAT'S the final point! Niko Ashura finishes it in style! Another win for the reigning champions. The Sky Kings remain untouchable!"
Jordan snorted.
"Niko Ashura," he said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "I used to play against him… back when I mattered."
The broadcast cut to replays, highlighting six players in slow motion each one introduced like gods of Olympus:
"Mika Fujimori the 'Clockmaker,' whose sets arrive at the perfect second. Yumi Hoshino reflexes sharp enough to cut lightning. Leo Takahara the strategic general. Arin Silva the ghost defender. Riku Tsukasa the Ace of Destruction. And of course… Niko Ashura, the Winged Demon. The Sky kings."
Jordan took a swig of whiskey.
His grip on the bottle tightened.
"Every damn one of them," he whispered, bitterness coating each word. "I could've been there. I should've been there."
He wasn't even angry at them. He was angry at himself.
At the kid who had quit right before regionals. Who cracked under pressure. Who let his dreams rot while others chased theirs to the sky.
He turned off the TV with a jab of the remote.
Darkness claimed the room.
"Fuck them," he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. "I hope they all die."
Thunder cracked. A streak of lightning illuminated the room for a split second, throwing his shadow against the wall like a corpse.
He stood, swaying slightly. Tossed on his thin coat. Opened the door.
The rain greeted him like an old friend.
Each drop hit like a slap. But he didn't flinch. Didn't rush. He walked slowly down the sidewalk, eyes locked ahead as water soaked him to the bone.
Maybe he welcomed it.
Maybe he needed to feel something.
Then
SCREEEEEECH!
A blinding light. A deafening horn.
Jordan barely turned his head before impact.
CRASH.
Silence.
Look at that, he thought, as the world fell into shadow. I cursed them… and I'm the one who dies. Ironic.
His body felt distant. Like he'd already stepped outside of it. His mind was weightless, floating in a cold, gray void.
Damn… this is what dying feels like? No job. No home. No love. Just... empty. I wasted it all.
If there was a God, Jordan figured He must be laughing.
If I could go back… just once… I'd do it all differently. I'd play like my life depended on it. I'd never quit. Never fold.
A single tear one of shame, not fear rolled down his cheek.
Hell… maybe I'd become one of those Sky Kings myself.
A sharp, digital chime pierced the void. Jordan's eyes fluttered open, though he wasn't sure he had eyes anymore. Blue text floated in front of him like a hologram.
[System Initializing…]
[System Loading: 1%… 9%… 27%… 65%… 89%… 99%…
100%.]
[System Online.]
What the hell?
[Welcome, Host.]
[Please choose a category and a sport you would like to play.]
Jordan blinked.
Is this a dream?
No. It felt too real like something beyond logic.
"Is this hell?" he muttered. "Or did the universe finally grow a sense of humor?"
Two glowing panels appeared:
[Team Sport]
[Individual Sport]
Jordan hesitated. Then scoffed. "Alright, system… if this is the afterlife, at least let me play something I loved."
He touched Team Sport right after he did a second screen unfolded listening sports that are played as a team.
Soccer.
[Football]
[Baseball]
[Volleyball]
[Basketball]
[Ruby]
[Net ball]
[Field Hockey]
He didn't even blink he knew what he wanted he knew he miss volleyball and he would love to play it again if he had a choice even if it's a messed up game the universe is playing on him he chose it in a heartbeat.
"Volleyball." He touched volleyball.
The screen pulsed. A final line appeared
[Selection Confirmed. Loading Memories… Rewinding Life… Recalibrating Body… Complete.]
Jordan's consciousness began to spiral, the light folding in around him. For a moment, he thought it was a cruel glitch, and that he'd fade out again forever.
But then
[Sport Protocol Complete.]