The noise came back all at once.
Lockers slamming. Sneakers squeaking on tile. Kids yelling across the hallway like tomorrow wasn't guaranteed. Kobe moved through it without really hearing any of it.
His head was already locked in.
If this was real—and everything told him it was—then the priority was obvious. Not highlights. Not ego. Not proving anything to anyone yet.
His body came first.
He'd spent years learning the hard way. Playing through stuff he shouldn't have. Grinding because that's what he thought toughness meant. He knew better now. Longevity wasn't luck. It was planning.
Work smart. Build right. Protect everything.
The bell rang and the hallway emptied toward buses and rides home. Laughter echoed behind him. Someone shoved a friend. Someone else talked about video games.
Kobe didn't turn.
He headed the other way.
The gym doors were open, letting out that familiar smell—old wood, rubber, sweat that never really left. It hit him and felt grounding, like muscle memory snapping into place.
He stopped just inside the doorway and reached into his backpack.
Pulled out a small notebook.
Nothing special. Cheap paper. Spiral-bound. But it was clean. Empty. Waiting.
He flipped to the first page and wrote slowly, carefully.
Dec 1991
Phase 1 initiated.
Priority: durability.
6:00 AM gym.
He paused, then underlined it.
Tomorrow morning, before school. No excuses. No noise. Just work.
Kobe closed the notebook, tucked it back into his bag, and stepped onto the gym floor.
Fourteen years old.
But already moving like someone who knew exactly where he was going.