Alright. First things first.
I should have said my name sooner.
Remy Love.
Funny how death and rebirth can reorder priorities. You think the universe would start with introductions, but it doesn't. It starts with motion. Breath. Intention. Names come later, when you're ready to carry them again.
Morning in Brooklyn always felt like percussion.
Subway rails humming under concrete. Footsteps layered over engines. Voices overlapping like instruments tuning up. I stood on the balcony and let the city set my tempo. At six foot seven, the world met me a little lower than it used to. Long frame. Point forward build. Room to grow, the system had already noted, like a quiet promise instead of a limit.
I moved well for my size. Always had. Lateral motion sharp. Hips loose. Feet quick enough to slide with guards and strong enough to hold ground against bigger bodies. Positioning came naturally. Knowing where to be before the play admitted it out loud.
That wasn't just basketball.
That was martial discipline.
My mother used to say I moved like water when I was a kid. She was Antiguan, island calm with steel underneath. She taught me breath before reaction, balance before power. My father, from Florence, South Carolina, taught me stillness. How to wait. How to let someone show you their intentions before you answered.
Both of them lived in my footwork.
The system stirred faintly as I headed out.
╭────────────────────────────╮
│ PHYSICAL PROFILE CONFIRMED│
│ HEIGHT 6'7 │
│ POSITION POINT FORWARD │
│ GROWTH POTENTIAL HIGH │
╰────────────────────────────╯
The gym doors were already open when I arrived.
Alina was there, same as always. No big entrance. No wasted motion. She tossed me a towel without looking.
"You eat," she asked.
"Always," I said.
"Good. We're layering today."
That was her word for it. Layering. Skill on top of conditioning. Conditioning on top of fatigue. Fatigue on top of decision making. She believed real basketball lived where comfort ended.
We started with movement prep. Not flashy. Deep lunges. Hip rotations. Controlled slides across the floor. I stayed low, chest tall, letting my hips lead instead of my knees.
The system paid attention.
╭────────────────────────────╮
│ LATERAL EFFICIENCY UP │
│ POSITIONING INSTINCT + │
╰────────────────────────────╯
"You don't drift," Alina said. "You arrive."
I smiled. "Anime taught me that."
She glanced over. "Of course it did."
I had always loved anime and manga. Stories where growth wasn't instant. Where the main character trained in silence while the world doubted. Where power came with control, not noise. Those stories wired my patience early. Made repetition feel sacred.
We moved into ball work.
She didn't overcoach. Just fed me situations.
Pick up at half court. Defender shading left. I read it before she finished the sentence. One dribble to shift the angle. Shoulder dip. Long stride. Stop on balance. Pass delivered right where the cutter needed it.
Again.
Now tighter coverage. I slid laterally, keeping my dribble alive, hips loose, eyes up. My handle stayed low and deliberate. No wasted bounce. Each dribble had a purpose, like a drumbeat keeping the play alive.
The system unlocked something quietly.
╭────────────────────────────╮
│ SKILL UNLOCKED │
│ PERCEPTIVE PACING │
│ LEVEL 1 │
╰────────────────────────────╯
I felt it immediately.
Not speed. Control of speed. The ability to slow a possession without killing it. To make defenders move at my pace instead of theirs. Shai's influence was clear now. That glide. That hesitation that felt disrespectful because it worked.
"Again," Alina said. "But make the defender think you're done."
I did.
My shoulders relaxed. Dribble softened. Defender imaginary but present leaned forward just a fraction.
That was enough.
I was gone.
Finish through contact. Soft touch. Land balanced.
The system responded.
╭────────────────────────────╮
│ CONTACT FINISHING UP │
│ BODY CONTROL + │
╰────────────────────────────╯
We pushed into fatigue drills next. Slide, sprint, recover, shoot. Over and over until my legs burned and my breath came heavy. My form stayed intact. Martial training kicked in. Breath controlled. Mind quiet.
"You don't panic," Alina said.
"I don't rush endings," I replied.
She nodded. "Nets are going to notice that."
"I know."
We took a break on the baseline, stretching. Comfortable silence. The kind that doesn't need filling.
"Your parents proud," she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Even when they don't say it."
"That's the good kind," she replied.
The system marked the moment without ceremony.
╭────────────────────────────╮
│ BOND PROGRESSION + │
│ STABILITY INCREASED │
╰────────────────────────────╯
I bounced the ball lightly, listening to the sound echo through the empty gym. Percussion. Rhythm. Control.
Reborn with a system that rewarded patience and punished shortcuts.
The combine was coming. Brooklyn was watching. The Nets were waiting.
And I wasn't trying to arrive early anymore.
I was arriving exactly on time.