Ace of the Bench

The rehab center was tucked in the back wing of the hospital, past a row of glass windows where Yuuto could see other patients shuffling along balance beams, lifting light weights, or stretching with resistance bands. The faint scent of antiseptic and sweat lingered in the air, mingling in a way that made everything feel clinical yet strangely alive, as if the room itself pulsed with effort and determination. The walls were painted a soft beige, broken up by motivational posters showing athletes mid-stride, jumping, or celebrating a point. Bright fluorescent lights reflected off the polished floor tiles, making every movement feel magnified.

His crutches clicked against the tiled floor as he followed the nurse inside. Every step made his arms ache, but it was still better than being in that wheelchair. The rhythmic sound echoed off the walls, a constant reminder that he was moving, no matter how painfully slow. His fingers were raw where they gripped the handles, and a dull throb ran from his wrists up through his shoulders, yet every step felt like progress.

"Yuuto Kai?" a cheerful voice called, pulling him from the haze of pain and concentration.

He turned to see a tall woman in her late twenties wearing a navy polo with Physical Therapy stitched neatly across the chest. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her name tag read Mizuki Sato. Her smile was bright and warm, the kind that could cut through even the foggiest morning haze.

"I'll be your rehab therapist," she said, stepping forward and extending her hand. "And judging by your file, you're a basketball player who hates sitting still."

Yuuto gave a short laugh, a sound rusty from disuse. "You got that right."

"Well," she said, pulling over a small adjustable chair and gesturing for him to sit, "you're going to be moving a lot but in ways you're not used to."

He lowered himself onto the chair, his arms trembling under the strain of holding himself up. He could feel the cool metal of his knee brace pressing against his skin, a reminder of the surgery and the weeks of immobility. He clenched his jaw and tried not to think about the months ahead.

The first exercise was simple: tightening his thigh muscles while keeping the knee straight. At least, it sounded simple.

By the third repetition, Yuuto's leg was trembling. The ache was deep, like the muscle had been asleep for years and had suddenly been woken by some cruel jolt. Sweat pricked his forehead, and his breathing became ragged. Every nerve ending screamed in protest.

"Good," Mizuki said, adjusting his leg brace with careful precision. "Now try bending it just a little."

The pain was instant, sharp and insistent, stabbing through the knee as if the joint itself remembered every past injury. Yuuto gritted his teeth, forcing his leg to move against the resistance of his own body.

"Hurts?" she asked, her voice calm but encouraging.

"Like hell," he admitted through clenched teeth.

"Then you're doing it right," she replied, her tone matter-of-fact but oddly comforting.

They moved on to balance drills, core work, and even upper-body strengthening. Yuuto felt his muscles screaming in revolt with every new movement. By the end of the hour, his arms felt like lead, and his knee was throbbing with a dull, persistent pain that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

He collapsed into the chair, gasping for breath. "I used to run the length of a court without thinking. Now I'm dying from… bending my leg?"

Mizuki chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement and respect. "That's how it works. We rebuild you one piece at a time. But here's the thingbyou have something most patients don't."

"What?" he asked, curiosity breaking through his exhaustion.

"You're an athlete. You know how to push yourself. That will make all the difference if you don't give up."

Her words settled into him, a small seed of hope growing amidst the soreness and self-doubt.

For the next week, rehab became his new game. The hospital room and therapy area turned into a court, each exercise a play, each small win a point scored.

Instead of three-pointers, he measured progress in degrees of knee flexion. Instead of layups, he celebrated being able to stand without his crutches for thirty seconds. He counted each repetition, tracked his own form, and noted every slight improvement in a mental journal only he could read.

It was humbling. It was exhausting. Every muscle ached, every joint protested, and yet there was an undeniable thrill in the realization that his body was still responding. That maybe, just maybe, it could fight back.

Late one afternoon, after finishing a particularly grueling set of exercises, Yuuto sat on the edge of the therapy table, staring at his reflection in the wall mirror. His legs still looked uneven the right one thinner, weaker. The scars of surgery and injury etched subtly into the skin, reminders of the battles he had fought. But for the first time, he didn't just see what he'd lost.

He saw the player he could become.

Maybe he wouldn't move exactly like before. Maybe he couldn't rely on raw speed and cutting through defenses with reckless abandon. But there were other ways to play. Sharper passing. Smarter positioning. Deadlier shooting. A cerebral game built on instinct, intuition, and precision.

If I can't beat them with speed… I'll beat them with everything else.

That night, Yuuto lay in bed, the faint hum of the ceiling fan spinning above him, its rhythmic sound strangely soothing. Rehab had drained him, but in a good way. His knee was sore, a deep, steady ache, but it was the kind of soreness that meant progress. Every twinge, every pull, every tremor was proof that the muscles, the tendons, the ligaments were waking up from months of dormancy.

Or so he thought.

It started as a dull throb under the kneecap, a familiar sensation he had felt before and had learned to tolerate. He shifted under the blanket, trying to find a comfortable position, massaging the area with his fingers. But then

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through his knee like a live wire striking bone.

"Ah!" He doubled over instinctively, clutching his leg as the pain spiraled into something far worse, like knives twisting deep inside the joint. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps.

"Please… no… no, no, no!" His voice cracked, echoing off the walls of his small bedroom.

Tears blurred his vision as he pressed his forehead to the pillow, rocking slightly in place. Memories slammed into him the first injury in primary school, the endless hospital visits, the coach's voice telling him he might never play again. Every failure, every setback, every disappointment returned in an unbearable flood.

"Not again… not again… please!" he begged into the dark, his voice trembling. "I can't lose this again!"

Then the pain froze. Not gone, but suspended, as if the world itself had paused. His ragged breathing echoed unnaturally loud in the room, each inhale and exhale amplified, alien. The darkness seemed to thicken, the hum of the fan fading into a low, digital buzz.

And in the silence, a voice spoke. Not his own.

[System initializing…]

[System Loading: 1%…5%…25%…60%…80%…99%…100%]

[Basketball Career Recovery Protocol Online.]

Yuuto's tears slowed, confusion slicing through the fear, leaving a sharp, electric clarity in their wake.

[Do you wish to reclaim your place on the court?]

His chest heaved. He didn't even hesitate. The answer had been written in him for years, lying dormant beneath pain, fear, and disappointment.

"Yes," he whispered, voice low but steady, fierce with determination.

[Acknowledged.]

[Loading: 25%…50%…75%…100%]

[Generating Abilities: 25%…50%…75%…100%]

[Creating the Perfect Body: 25%…50%…75%…99%]

[Error… Error… Error]

[Reloading: 25%…50%…75%…99%]

[Error… Error… Syncing]

[There is an injury on the user's knee that could stop them from playing. The system must assist in recovery before creating the perfect body for sports.]

[Yes/No]

"Yes," he breathed, almost as if exhaling relief itself.

[Welcome, Player Yuuto Kai.]

A strange calm settled over him. The pain was still there, throbbing faintly, but the panic had subsided. For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel helpless. There was a plan. There was a system. There was a way forward.

Yuuto closed his eyes, letting the reality of the system sink in, and finally allowed sleep to take him, carrying him into the unknown future that waited on the other side.