Trainers squeaked against varnished wood, rubber on lacquer, rubber on lacquer, cut through by the hollow thump of a basketball and the constant noise of sweaty teenage boys pretending they weren’t tired.
Shirts versus skins.
Kam was on shirts.
He had the ball.
He was open.
The hoop was right there.
From the sideline, Taylor leaned against the bench, officially “resting his face,” one eye half-closed, the other tracking Kam with the detached concern of someone watching a bugged speedrun.
“Drive!” Taylor shouted. “Press sprint! R2!”
Kam tried to run.
It felt like wading through treacle, each step landing with a heavy, dead thud that echoed a fraction too long. The sound came a beat late, physics settling into place.
He reached the paint, bent his knees, pushed.
He rose maybe an inch off the floor.
Then came straight back down.
The floorboards groaned, low and tired.
Kam threw the ball anyway. His arms were heavy too, the release sluggish, the arc shallow. It dropped through the net with a sad, apologetic thwack.
Silence.
Then the whistle shrieked.
“Kam!” the PE teacher barked. “Stop walking! Pick up the pace!”
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Kam wiped sweat from his eyes. He was drenched. Just existing felt like carrying a washing machine strapped to his ribs.
As players subbed out, Taylor jogged past him, grinning.
“Bro,” he said. “You’re fat-rolling.”
Kam bent over, hands on his knees. “I can’t turn it off,” he said. “If I relax, I might flare.”
Taylor shook his head. “Zero vertical. You’re glitching into the floor.” He winced. “Un-equip the chest piece, fam.”
“I can’t.”
Play resumed.
Leo took the inbound. “Think fast.”
The pass came quick.
Kam caught the ball.
THUD.
It stopped dead in his hands.
A kid charged in to steal it and bounced off Kam’s hip like he’d hit a lamppost, hitting the floor hard and staring up in confused betrayal.
The whistle blew again.
“Foul!” the PE teacher shouted. “Kam, stop blocking!”
“I didn’t move!” Kam said.
Taylor was wheezing now. “You’re a hitbox exploit! You’re just standing there and people are clipping through you!”
Kam looked down.
Beneath his trainers, the varnish in the gym floor had spiderwebbed, fine cracks, subtle.
Wrong.
Taylor clocked it, sobered for half a second, then waved it off. “Okay. Swap out before you get banned for griefing the court.”
Leo jogged past, trying to sound helpful. “You’re overcorrecting. Heavy Mode isn’t meant to be constant.”
“Thank you, Professor Patch Notes,” Taylor said.
Kam backed away from the court. Every step made the wood complain like it remembered him.
He dropped onto the bench and stared at his hands.
They looked normal.
That was the problem.
“So what am I meant to do?” he asked.
Taylor leaned in. “Stance switching.”
Kam blinked. “That’s not a real thing.”
“It is now,” Taylor said. “On for the hit. Off for the jump. Frame-perfect.”
“Short pulses,” Leo added. “No sustained load.”
“Exactly,” Taylor said. “Stop walking around like a fridge.”
Kam exhaled slowly.
The weight in his chest was steady. Contained.
But he could feel the other edge too, the heat waiting.
Two failure modes. Same body. Different disasters.
Across the gym, Marcus stood by the doors.
The game moved behind him.
Kam didn’t.
His expression stayed flat.
He was learning.
Kam looked away first.
---
The corridor outside the gym was cooler.
Kam stumbled through the double doors and collapsed onto a bench, elbows on his knees, head hanging. His body vibrated with exhaustion.
Taylor followed, already checking his phone. “That was a disaster,” he said. “Minus agility. You were moving like a cutscene that hasn’t finished loading.”
“Shut up,” Kam muttered. “I’m dizzy.”
“You can’t just leave Heavy Mode running,” Taylor said. “It drains the battery.”
A voice cut in.
“Are you going to pay for the floor?”
Kam lifted his head.
Maya stood a few steps away, holding a water bottle. Same PE kit. On her, it looked calm. Effortless.
Taylor faded from her attention.
Kam didn’t.
“What?” Kam said.
“The parquet flooring,” she said. “You cracked it.”
“Nah,” Taylor said. “Physics engine bug.”
Maya looked at him.
Bored.
“Right.”
She turned back to Kam, her eyes dropping to his hands.
They were shaking.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Why were you running like that?” she asked. “Like you were carrying something.”
“I felt heavy.”
“Then stop carrying it.”
The words landed clean and complete.
Taylor opened his mouth. Closed it.
Maya set the bottle on the bench beside Kam, cold and beaded with condensation.
“It’s just water,” she said. “If you spill it, you spill it.”
She walked away.
“Drink it before you pass out,” she called back. “You look grey.”
Kam watched her go.
Silence.
He looked at the bottle, then at his hands.
Carefully, measured pressure, controlled heat, he picked it up.
The bottle stayed intact.
The cool plastic felt real.
It felt normal.