Being discharged from the hospital should've felt like freedom.
To Darius, it felt like stepping out of a spaceship into the wrong atmosphere.
The hospital pants itched. The hallway shoes squeaked. The fluorescent lighting was judgmental. But the real problem—the actual problem—was the body.
Something was off.
Not injury-off. Not even "I skipped leg day" off. This was deeper. Stranger. Like his limbs were running someone else's software.
The air felt heavier. His balance tilted left when he meant to go right. Blinking took effort. Every movement had a weird delay, like he was buffering in real time.
"Am I... lagging?" he muttered.
Even his own breath sounded louder, like his lungs were unsure how much air to use.
This wasn't Kai's body. This wasn't the frame that dunked over defenders, danced through defenses, or clung to cliffs and skate ramps like gravity was a dare. This was Darius's body—soft where Kai had been sharp, unfamiliar where Kai had been home.
It wasn't broken. It just wasn't his.
And no one noticed.
—
Outside, the Navarro family gathered like a surprise party nobody asked for.
Grandma Ofelia — tiny, tough, and emotionally bulletproof. Smelled like menthol rub and judgment. Held a container of brownies like it doubled as spiritual defense.
Mom, Reina — crying while scolding, emotionally Olympic-tier.
Dad, Marco — filming him in portrait mode like he was vlogging for a family reunion that only existed in theory.
The Twins, Luna & Lexi — age seven, chaos in stereo. Wore glitter. Threw glitter.
Uncle Tito — always in aviators, half folklore, half internet rabbit hole. Whispered "he's awake, but is he the same" to no one in particular.
Cousin Jamal — fourteen, with a tragic playlist in his back pocket and big "I journal about my feelings but call it rap lyrics" energy.
They waved. They squealed. Someone yelled "He's back!" with enough enthusiasm to wake birds three blocks away.
Darius didn't wave.
He stood there, blinking like a man who forgot his own operating instructions.
Still, they swarmed him.
There were hugs. Flashes. A "WELCOME HOME" poster that looked like it had retired from someone's 60th birthday and been rebranded with glitter glue.
He said nothing.
This wasn't his life. These weren't his people.
Every word wrapped around him like an outfit he didn't fit into. Every "You're back!" hit like a line from a script where he didn't know the plot.
And the worst part?
They weren't wrong.
He wasn't Darius.
But the body was.
And in that moment, all he wanted was to unzip his skin, step out, and return to being Kai Monroe—the boy who flew, who lived on adrenaline, who loved recklessly and knew who he was.
Instead, he climbed into the family van, wedged between glitter-coated twins and Jamal's existential playlist, and stared out the window like the sky might explain something.
It didn't.
The ride home was quiet.
Well—quiet if you ignored the twins arguing over a sparkly shoe, Grandma humming hymns like she was warding off spiritual Bluetooth signals, and Dad's navigation system glitching for the fourth time in five minutes.
In the middle of it all sat Darius—arms folded, head leaning against the window, very much not vibing.
Mom, sensing the fog, reached over from the passenger seat and gently patted his knee. "I'll make your favorite dinner tonight," she said softly. "Chicken alfredo with those little garlic knots you like. Remember?"
Darius nodded.
He did not remember.
The mood in the car was somewhere between hopeful and deeply weird. Everyone felt it—that weird tension. Like they'd gotten their Darius back, but some internal setting had been... offloaded.
Still, no one said anything. Out loud, anyway.
They pulled into the driveway. The house looked cheerful and lived-in—like it had opinions about seasonal throw pillows.
Inside, the whirlwind of re-entry began. Bags were dropped. Shoes kicked off. Grandma lit a cinnamon-something candle with unnecessary force.
Then came The Room.
Mom opened the door with a fond sigh. "Welcome home, sweetheart."
Darius stepped in.
And stopped.
The air left his lungs like it had been mugged.
The walls were smothered in Rock 'n Roll posters, glow-in-the-dark stars, and at least three shelves of anime figurines mid-action pose. A life-size cardboard cutout of a wizard stood in the corner like it paid rent.
It was the visual equivalent of a playlist called "White Boy Energy Vol. 7."
Darius took one slow step in, looked around, and blinked like the floor might give him better answers.
"…Whose room is this?" he asked flatly.
Mom laughed. "What do you mean? It's yours."
Grandma Ofelia peered in from behind. "Mira, Dios mío… this is ugly."
"Mom!" Reina snapped.
"What? He asked!"
"I know, but you don't have to say it like that!"
"She's not wrong," Darius mumbled.
Everyone froze.
Even the twins stopped mid-sprint to look up.
Jamal leaned against the doorframe, eyes wide. "Whoa. You agreeing with Grandma Ofelia now? You used to fight anyone who said a word about this room. You were—like—emotionally attached to that wizard."
Darius blinked. "Why would I defend a room that looks like Comic-Con exploded and gave up halfway through?"
Grandma cackled so hard she had to sit down.
Mom looked mildly offended. "Well... it's your space. We tried to keep it just the way you left it."
"Yeah," Darius said, stepping around a lava lamp like it was radioactive. "That might've been the first mistake."
...
The Navarro dining room sounded like a zoo fighting inside a church.
Forks clinked, kids screamed, someone spilled juice, and Uncle Tito was mid-explanation about how the moon landing was staged using puppets and "French technology."
Darius stepped into the room.
And instantly, the noise cut off like someone yanked the power cord out of the evening.
Seven sets of eyes turned toward him.
He blinked, deadpan. "Don't stop on my account. I came here for the jazz."
Grandma snorted. Someone coughed into a napkin. And just like that, the noise returned in full stereo.
They made room at the table. The twins shoved a glitter-encrusted booster cushion toward him. Jamal wordlessly passed the salt like a truce.
Everyone ate.
This—this overflowing table of people and mismatched Tupperware sides—was completely foreign to him. In his other life, dinners were solo acts. Microwave mac and cheese. Mom's voicemail playing in the background. His only dining companions were ESPN reruns and silence.
Now? Noise. Elbows. A sister accidentally dipping her hair in his mashed potatoes.
What even is this?
"Anyway," Grandma said mid-meal, pointing a spoon like a weapon, "he'll need to get back to school soon. Time waits for no one."
Mom didn't look up from her plate. "We're not rushing him. His brain just rebooted. Let the boy breathe."
"He won't be a doctor if he's skipping algebra."
"We're not rushing" Mom muttered. "Maybe he should be here at home for a while, you know... get used to the things around here before going outside."
"If you keep that up, a snack reviewer won't marry him into heaven, Reina."
"Neither will stress hives."
Across the table, Darius blinked. "Nobody here's worried I've been in a coma for two years—but the real crisis is geometry?"
Mom waved her fork. "Exactly mom, if he'll go to school he needs to go with a fresh mind, ins't that right my future doctor?"
"Yeah," he said slowly, gaze drifting to his plate. "Well... I'm never gonna be a doctor."
Dead silence.
"I'm gonna be a basketball player."
The room froze like someone pressed pause on humanity.
Even Grandma stopped mid-chew.
He kept talking, like maybe momentum would help. "Like, that's what I want to do. I've always wanted to. Not surgeries. Not stethoscopes. Just the court. That's my dream."
Still quiet.
He looked around.
"What?" he asked.
Mom blinked, confused. "What did you just say?"
"I said I want to be a basketball player."
Everyone stared at him like he'd announced he wanted to join the circus on Neptune.
Even Jamal looked like he needed a second to reboot.
"…Okay," Dad said finally, wiping his mouth and sounding exactly like someone who didn't know what to say but wanted credit for saying something.
"Did he hit his head again?" Grandma whispered.
Uncle Tito nodded solemnly. "They probably put a microchip in him."
Darius leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. ''What did I say something wrong?''
The mashed potatoes blinked at him in solidarity.