Basketball Soul System: I Got Westbrook’s MVP Powers in Another World!

The Celestial Arena's VIP parking lot glowed under the sodium hum of streetlights, the air thick with the lingering buzz of defeat. The Roarers, heads low, filed onto their team bus, the engine idling like a restless beast.

Ryan opened his messages and tapped out a text to Chloe, his fingers heavy. Rough night. We got torched. Hurts bad—need to hear your voice. The words felt raw, a quiet plea for comfort after his 31 points, 8 assists, and 5 rebounds paled against Hardell's legend-making night.

The message had just gone out when his phone buzzed—but it wasn't her.

The caller ID lit up with K-Vibe's name. Ryan exhaled hard, already knowing where this was going, and thumbed the answer button with a tired edge.

"Yo," he muttered, sinking deeper into his seat. "I told Hardell already—I'm not hitting the club tonight. I'm on the bus."

K-Vibe's voice crackled through, all business. "Chill, man, this ain't about clubs. It's the new track, Who Let the Dogs Out." Ryan leaned back, the bus's hum grounding him. "Talk to Eddie, then," he said, rubbing his temple.

K-Vibe pushed on. "Already did. Deal's set—could've signed online, but I'm flying to Iron City tomorrow for a gig pitch. Figure I'll sign in person."

Ryan cracked a faint smile. "Cool. I'll take you to dinner, then."

K-Vibe's tone softened, casual but pointed. "Actually, that's not why I called. I wanted to ask about a demo. I heard when you sold the song to Selena, you recorded a demo for her. Could you record one for me too?"

Ryan paused, slightly taken aback. K-Vibe even knew about that?

"No problem," he said after a beat. "Even if you hadn't asked, I would've recorded one for you."

This was different from Remember the Name. Back then, Ryan had only sung the chorus and a few bars of rap at the club. K-Vibe had jumped on stage, snatched the mic, and improvised the rest. Everything beyond the chorus—the rap, the verses—was K-Vibe's creation. There was no demo to speak of.

But this time, it was different. Who Let the Dogs Out was a full-fledged track. Of course it needed a demo.

Ryan's mind flicked to Kylie—her voice, even as a female vocalist, would outshine his own for the demo.

——

Wednesday.

The Roarers didn't get the luxury of a day off. Less than twenty-four hours removed from a grueling road game, the team was already back to work. The schedule offered no mercy—two home games in two nights, the dreaded back-to-back, the Vellix City Phantoms tomorrow and the Yurev Crows the day after.

With the regular season winding down, every team was clawing for position. The coming back-to-back promised nothing easy—two games destined to be battles of pace and grit, where the smallest lapse would exact a heavy price.

Ryan was the first to roll into the Roarers' training center, his sneakers hitting the hardwood before dawn. The team trickled in, kicking off with light warm-ups—stretching, dribbling, and catch-and-shoot drills. Ryan's jumper felt crisp, each shot a quiet rebellion against last night's defeat, where Jalen Hardell's 53-point triple-double had stolen the stage. Then came the film session, the room dim, the air heavy with focus. Players sat in rows, eyes locked on the screen as Crawford dissected the Phantoms' and Crows' playbooks, freeze-framing their stars' cuts and tendencies. Ryan's pen scratched furiously, his notebook a maze of arrows, numbers, and shorthand—pick-and-roll counters, weak-side rotations. He wasn't just watching; he was studying war.

From there, the team piled onto the bus and rode to Iron Vault Arena, their home court, to rehearse plays in full scale.

Crawford kept the intensity moderate, saving legs for the back-to-back, but the repetitions—screen, flare, cut—left Ryan's jersey soaked, his breath heavy.

It was past four when he finally unlocked his front door. The quiet of the house washed over him, but the peace didn't last. His phone buzzed almost as soon as he dropped his keys on the counter.

"Done," Eddie's voice came sharp and efficient on the line. "K-Vibe signed this afternoon. Same deal as Selena. Thirty grand flat for full songwriting and composition rights."

Ryan let out a short breath. "Got it."

No excitement. No hesitation.

Thirty thousand would've felt like a miracle once, but now it was just another line item, a small ripple in a much larger current.

He trusted Eddie with the logistics. No need to be in the room. A few pleasantries, and he hung up.

Curiously, K-Vibe hadn't called, Ryan assumed the rapper was busy.

No matter. His own plan was simple: around six, swing by Kylie's place, cut the demo, then take K-Vibe out for dinner.

Ryan dozed on the couch, the weight of the practice pulling him under. At 5:50, he shook himself awake, grabbed his keys, and stepped out.

A low rumble cut through the dusk—a sleek, chrome-trimmed sports car rolled into his driveway, engine purring like a caged panther.

The window slid down, and K-Vibe's face appeared, sunglasses glinting, a grin splitting his jaw. "Hop in, man," he called. "You owe me dinner."

Ryan froze, then laughed, jogging to the passenger side. "Was just about to get someone to record your demo," he said as he slid in.

K-Vibe raised an eyebrow, easing the car into gear. "What, you ain't just gonna sing it yourself?" Ryan shook his head, dead serious. "My voice ain't it. You paid good money—deserve the real deal. Got someone who can sing it right."

K-Vibe's eyes sparked with curiosity. "Now that I gotta see. Let me tag along. We'll record, then we eat. Deal?"

Ryan nodded. "Deal."

Inside, he was laughing to himself. He'd already texted Kylie to expect him, but K-Vibe's surprise visit was a curveball. He could already picture her reaction—starstruck, fumbling—when she saw the rap icon in the flesh.

The car sliced through the city streets, Ryan leading the way. Ten minutes later, they pulled up outside a weathered apartment building, its bricks darkened with age. Against the flash of K-Vibe's ride, the place looked fragile, like a relic from another world.

They stepped into a creaky elevator, its buttons half-broken, some gummed up with old chews. K-Vibe eyed the mess, shaking his head. "Your friend lives in this dump?" Ryan chuckled. "Used to crash here myself. This is Jamal's spot—you know, the dude who shot your MV." K-Vibe's face lit up. "Oh, that guy. So he's the one singing?" Ryan grinned, correcting him. "Nah, his sister, Kylie."

The elevator dinged and sputtered open on the seventh floor. Ryan led the way down the narrow hall to 702.

The door cracked open to reveal Jamal. His eyes flicked from Ryan to the figure at his side, and for a heartbeat, he froze. Recognition dawned in his expression, chased quickly by the stiffness of self-awareness. Fame had a way of building invisible walls, even here, in this cramped hallway.

Still, Jamal managed a polite smile. "Come in."

No hugs, no fanfare—just enough courtesy to bridge the gap.

Then, from the back room, footsteps. The door swung open, and Kylie emerged, hair pulled into a casual ponytail, notebook in hand. She glanced up—and stopped dead.

Her eyes widened, mouth parting as if to speak, but no words came. She stood frozen, staring at the man in sunglasses now slipping them off, his smile easy and familiar from every screen she'd ever watched.

"You're—" she stammered, voice trembling. "You're K-Vibe?"

He laughed, warm and unguarded. "That's me."

For a second, Kylie didn't move. Then color rushed to her cheeks. She grabbed for the nearest pen, fumbling with a notebook as though afraid the moment might vanish.

"Could you—sign this? And maybe…a photo?"

The tension in the room dissolved, replaced by a bubbling excitement that lifted the air. Jamal leaned against the wall, shaking his head at his sister's sudden fluster. Ryan watched from the side, amused at how perfectly the scene had unfolded.

This was exactly the reaction he'd expected, maybe even better. The demo session hadn't even begun, and already the night felt charged with something electric.

The buzz of excitement lingered even after the pen left the page and the phone clicked shut on their photo. But at some point, the night had to move forward. It was demo time.

Kylie led the way toward her room, clutching the notebook to her chest. It wasn't that the living room wouldn't do, but her room had the better acoustics—quieter, less echo, just right for a clean take. Still, with K-Vibe trailing behind her, sunglasses now tucked into his collar, the idea of letting him into her bedroom felt surreal.

She hesitated at the doorway, cheeks warm. K-Vibe caught the look and broke into an easy grin.

"Relax, I'm Ryan's boy. Don't see me as some star—think of me as your big brother."

The reassurance landed. Kylie gave a quick nod, pushing the door open. Everyone filed in—Ryan, Jamal, and finally K-Vibe. The room was small, barely enough space for the four of them.

Kylie stole a glance at K-Vibe, relieved he didn't flinch at the room's modest vibe.

There was only one chair in the room, and instinctively she offered it to K-Vibe. The others settled on the edge of her bed, knees nearly touching.

"This one's light, fun—a party track," Ryan explained, handing over the printed lyrics. Bold across the top: Who Let the Dogs Out.