The rain outside tapped faintly against the hospital window — a soft, uneven rhythm, like digital static trying to seep through the glass. Each drop drew pale streaks down the pane, blurring the city lights into a wash of blue and gold. It felt almost artificial, as though the world beyond that glass was another simulation, waiting to be logged into.
Reever leaned back against the raised bed, the thin hospital blanket bunched at his waist. The faint hum of machinery surrounded him — steady, mechanical, indifferent — keeping tempo with his slowing pulse. He could feel his heartbeat echo faintly through the oxygen line beneath his nose, a reminder that flesh still tethered him to reality.
Across from him, the young CEO — crisp suit, slick posture, eyes that looked like they'd never seen sleep — scrolled through a holographic tablet that glowed faintly in the dim room. Lines of light shifted across his face, casting him in alternating shades of ghostly blue and shadow.
Reever's eyes narrowed, voice roughened by age and sarcasm. "You didn't come here just to talk about nostalgia, did you?"
The young man's lips curved into a measured smile. "No," he said calmly, not looking up from the hologram. "I came because we're about to rewrite it."
He turned the screen toward Reever. The image that appeared hovered in the air like a reflection made of light — a sleek, capsule-shaped construct of polished silver, veins of neon blue pulsing faintly across its surface like living circuitry.
Reever squinted, leaning forward slightly. "Looks like a coffin."
"Depends on what you do inside it," the CEO said, amusement flickering in his voice. "We call it the Ascend.Exe Pod. Our newest project. It links directly to the neural pathways — no controllers, no headsets, no screens. You feel the game. The recoil of the rifle, the crunch of gravel beneath your boots, the pulse in your hands when you reload."
Reever let out a raspy chuckle. "So you finally made the dream real, huh? Kids have been screaming for that since the thirty-somethings."
The young man smiled faintly. "Not just kids," he said, his tone softening. "You were one of the pioneers. Your reflex data from the old tournaments — your reaction speeds, precision, decision mapping — all of it helped us train the AI's behavioral framework. In a way," he added, his eyes meeting Reever's, "you're already part of the code."
Reever blinked slowly, a faint crease forming on his brow. "You're telling me I'm in there? Part of that machine?"
"In a way, yes. The neural model we built uses your archived data — from the old Global Series days. The AI learned from your instincts. You helped teach it how to think like a player. How to move, how to react, how to win."
Reever's voice grew quieter, more serious. "And now you want me to test it."
The CEO nodded. "That's right. You started the legend, Reever. You were the foundation. We want you to be the one to close the loop — to finish what began with you."
Reever stared at the hologram — the sleek silver pod hovering in the projection, its blue veins pulsing in time with the rhythm of his heart monitor. It looked both alien and intimate, like a doorway into something he had already known too well."End it, huh?" he murmured. "What if I'm not ready to end anything?"
The CEO hesitated before speaking. "You're ninety years old, sir. Your heart barely survived another match." His voice wasn't patronizing — if anything, it carried something close to respect. "But this isn't just another game. It's your last battlefield. One final chance to step back into the world that defined you — not as an old man, but as the legend everyone still remembers."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence in the room deepened, heavy and intimate, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor. Rain trickled down the glass, distorting the reflection of the pod's hologram until it looked like the machine was bleeding light.
Reever turned his gaze toward the window. The city beyond was little more than smudged neon and fog, its heartbeat distant. "You're asking too much," he muttered.
"I'm asking you," the young man said quietly, "to be Reever one more time."
The words hung there — a challenge, a memory, a promise. And for just a moment, something flickered behind the old man's eyes. A glint of the soldier who once moved faster than thought. The one whose name still echoed in forgotten leaderboards and archived match footage.
Reever exhaled slowly, a weak smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If I die in there," he said, "I'll haunt your servers."
The CEO laughed softly, relief breaking through the tension. "Fair deal."
He tapped the side of his tablet, and almost instantly, the door to the room hissed open. Two technicians entered — sterile white suits, steady hands — rolling in a covered machine that hummed faintly, a low thrum that made the air vibrate.
Reever's gaze followed it as they approached. The hum was subtle, but it carried something electric — a presence that demanded attention. When the cover was pulled back, the metallic pod revealed itself fully, light coursing gently through its veins like it was breathing.
The CEO stood and adjusted his jacket. "We brought it here for your convenience," he said, stepping aside as the technicians began calibrating the interface. "The NeuralSync process will take a few minutes. Once inside, your consciousness will transition automatically. No lag, no sensory break."
Reever stared at the pod as though looking at both a grave and a promise. The pulsing blue glow reflected faintly in his eyes. "You sure this thing's safe?"
The CEO hesitated, then said with a small, knowing smile, "Safer than life."
Reever chuckled darkly, the sound closer to a cough. "That's not saying much."
He reached out, his trembling hand brushing the pod's cold surface. It was smoother than glass, colder than metal — like touching the edge of a storm before it breaks. "Alright, kid," he said quietly. "Let's see if your toy can keep up with an old man."
The CEO's gaze softened, admiration mingling with something heavier — a sadness he couldn't quite hide. "Good luck, Reever," he said.
The hum of the pod deepened, a low vibration resonating through the floor. With a gentle hiss, it opened — a bloom of mist spilling into the sterile air, carrying a faint metallic tang. The soft blue light inside pulsed invitingly, like the heartbeat of a machine waiting for its pilot.
Reever lingered only a moment longer. His eyes drifted toward the window, where the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Beyond it, faint sunlight broke through the clouds, scattering weak gold over the gray skyline. He smiled faintly to himself.
"One last game," he murmured.
Then he stepped inside.
The pod closed with a quiet hiss, sealing him away. The hospital room dimmed as the pod's light grew brighter, flooding the space in blue. For a few moments, everything was still — until the sound of an electronic whisper filled the air.
"Initializing neural dive... Player ID: Reever."
And then the lights flickered — and the old legend was in the game.