The alarm went off at 5:00 AM.
Sharp. Clean. No snooze.
In the original timeline, fourteen-year-old Kobe would've still been out cold, tangled in sheets, body begging for another hour. This time, his eyes were already open before the sound finished cutting through the room.
He shut it off immediately.
No hesitation. No grogginess.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, feeling the chill of the floor through his socks. The house was quiet—deep quiet. The kind that only exists when adults are asleep and the world hasn't started asking for anything yet.
His workout clothes were laid out perfectly on the chair. Shorts. Shirt. Socks folded together. Shoes already laced loose enough to slip into. He'd done it the night before without thinking. Old habits from a future that didn't exist yet.
He dressed fast, efficient. No mirror check. No wasted movement.
This wasn't motivation.
This was routine.
Down the hallway, the doors to his parents' room were closed. He could hear his father's steady breathing through the wall. Everyone was asleep. Normal life.
The plan hit its first problem when he reached the kitchen.
No car. No ride.
And the gym key wasn't where it should've been.
He stood still for a second, weighing options.
Waiting crossed his mind—just briefly. Wait for morning. Wait for school hours. Wait like a kid.
His jaw tightened.
Waiting was inefficiency.
He opened the closet by the back door and pulled out his father's old gym bag. The zipper rasped louder than he liked, and he froze, listening. Nothing. House still asleep.
Good.
He slipped the bag over his shoulder, eased the back door open, and stepped into the cold.
The air bit immediately. December in suburban Philly didn't care how disciplined you were. Kobe started jogging the second his feet hit the pavement, breath steady, pace light.
Two miles.
Perfect warm-up.
His body felt young—springy, almost reckless—but his mind kept it in check. Short strides. Loose shoulders. Controlled breathing. He focused on keeping everything aligned, already thinking about joints, tendons, stress.
Longevity first.
Streetlights passed in rhythm. Quiet houses. Parked cars dusted with frost. No music. No distractions. Just his breath and the sound of shoes hitting concrete.
Lower Merion High School came into view, dark and silent, the building looking bigger than he remembered. Or maybe he was just smaller now.
He slowed as he reached the side entrance.
No hesitation.
He walked straight to the maintenance door, reached behind the loose panel near the vent, and pulled out the spare key. Same spot. Some things didn't change.
The lock clicked open.
Kobe stepped inside, the smell of polished floors and old air wrapping around him like confirmation.
Lights off. Gym empty.
He dropped the bag by the wall, took a second to stretch his neck, rolled his shoulders, and looked out at the court.
No crowd. No noise.
Perfect.
Phase 1 had officially started.