Michael's stolen sneakers crunched over the gravel parking lot as he sprinted toward the baseball field. He skidded to a stop at the players' entrance. A keypad glowed beside the gate, demanding a fingerprint scan for access. Normally, only active team members could get in.
He pressed his left thumb against the scanner.
BEEP.
The gate unlocked.
He shoved through, sprinting down the tunnel toward the field. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline.
The Phoenix Vial's timer glowed in his peripheral vision:
[2:43:12…]
The field sprawled before him, pristine under the morning sun. Michael's throat tightened. Three months ago, this place had been his temple. Now it felt like a graveyard.
Not anymore.
He vaulted the dugout fence and landed on the warning track. His body moved with a fluidity he'd forgotten—no wobble, no pain. The vial wasn't just healing him; it was enhancing him.
A shout echoed from the press box: "Hey! This field's closed!"
A groundskeeper in a UT cap jogged toward him, waving a clipboard. "Practice isn't till noon! Get outta here!"
Michael kept walking toward the mound.
"I'm serious, kid!" The man grabbed his shoulder.
Michael turned.
The groundskeeper's face paled. "Cobb? But you're… you're in the hospital."
"Got better." Michael shrugged free. "Field's booked for a… special practice. Coach approved it."
The lie slipped out smoothly. The groundskeeper frowned, squinting at Michael's bandaged stump. "You ain't on the roster. And you sure as hell ain't cleared to play."
Think. Fast.
Michael pointed to the bullpen. "Check the schedule. Coach Harris added a rehab session. For me."
The man hesitated, then pulled out his phone. Michael didn't wait. He strode to the equipment shed, smashed the lock with a rock (no time for keys), and grabbed a bucket of balls and his old glove.
"Hey!" The groundskeeper chased him. "Those are team property!"
Michael ignored him. He reached the mound, kicking aside the rosin bag. The rubber felt sacred under his feet.
The man gaped. "You can't just—"
CRACK.
Michael fired a fastball into the backstop. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
The groundskeeper froze.
Michael wound up again. This pitch hit the catcher's mitt painted on the concrete wall—dead center.
"Still got it," he whispered.
The groundskeeper backed away, muttering into his radio. "Yeah, it's Cobb. Throwing heat. I don't know either…"
…
Tyler's hands gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.
The radio blared some country song about trucks and heartbreak, but he barely heard it. His phone buzzed nonstop in the cup holder—texts from the team, confused emojis, questions he didn't have answers to.
This is insane. Insane.
He glanced in the rearview mirror at Jake and Luis crammed in the backseat with folded tables and a half-assed "SUPPORT MICHAEL!" poster leaning against the window.
Jake was scrolling TikTok, and Luis was shoveling Cheetos into his mouth like this was just another Tuesday.
"Why're we even doing this?" Jake asked, pausing his video. "Mike's off his meds or something. Dude can't even hold a fork."
Luis snorted. "Remember two days ago? He couldn't even hold a burrito right."
"Shut up," Tyler snapped. "Because we owe him. Remember freshman year? He talked Coach out of cutting you, Luis."
Luis flushed. "Yeah, but…"
"But nothing." Tyler grabbed the foldable table. "We set up, film Mike's meltdown, use that as our next charity video material, then we're done with him. Got it?"
The baseball field parking lot was empty except for a rusty Honda Civic. Tyler parked crookedly, ignoring the "NO EVENT TODAY" signs plastered on the gates.
"Grab the cameras," he ordered, popping the trunk. "And look… if Mike's acting crazy, we'll just… I dunno, call an ambulance."
Jake hoisted a DSLR camera onto his shoulder. "What's he even gonna do? Wave his nub around?"
"Shut. Up." Tyler's stomach churned as they approached the field. The sound hit him first—a sharp CRACK, like a firework. Then another. And another.
What the—?
They rounded the corner, and all three froze.
Michael stood on the pitcher's mound, windbreaker sleeves flapping where his right arm should've been.
His left hand wound back, then snapped forward like a whip. A white blur shot across the field, smacking into the makeshift strike zone painted on the backstop.
THWACK!
"That's… that's 90 miles an hour," Jake whispered, camera dangling uselessly at his side. "Maybe more."
Luis dropped his bag of Cheetos. "No way."
Tyler couldn't breathe. This wasn't the broken guy he'd visited yesterday. Michael moved with the same fierce precision he'd had before the accident—even better. His throws were faster, sharper, each pitch a declaration.
How? HOW?!
Michael turned, sweat dripping off his jaw, eyes blazing. "Took you long enough."
"Dude." Tyler's voice cracked. "Your… your arm—"
"Setup the cameras. Now." Michael grabbed a fresh ball from the bucket. "Livestream on YouTube, Instagram, TikTok. Tag every sports blog, every news site. Move."
The guys scrambled, too shell-shocked to argue. Jake fumbled with the tripod while Luis slapped the "SUPPORT MICHAEL" sign on the dugout fence. Tyler pulled out his phone, hands shaking as he started filming.
"This is wild," Luis muttered. "He's throwing like… like a machine."
Exactly. Tyler zoomed in. Michael's left arm was a piston, flawless and relentless. No hesitation, no wobble. The bandages on his right stump had come loose, flapping with each throw, but he didn't seem to care.
A notification buzzed in Michael's pocket.
[Tatsuya's Status Update: 3 hours until arrival!]
Crap. He'd almost forgotten about the samurai speeding toward Aiko. Michael ducked behind the dugout wall, pulling out his phone.
The game's loading screen flickered—Aiko knelt in her tent, grinding herbs. Her HP bar glowed a fragile yellow.
Eight hours. Michael's event would be over by then. He needed a way to monitor her while pitching. His thumb jabbed the in-game store, scrolling past flashy swords and armor until he found it:
[Eagle-Eye Totem - $ 499.99 ]
Receive real-time alerts when your champion is in danger!
500 Bucks? That was a quarter of his remaining funds. Greedy pixels.
But he bought it anyway, wincing as the gold counter drained. A wooden owl figurine materialized in his inventory.
[Remaining fund: $1,777.32]
[Totem Activated!]
You'll now receive notifications if Aiko's HP drops below 20%!
Michael exhaled. At least he wouldn't miss an emergency. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket just as Tyler called out, "Livestream's up! We're trending in three… two…"
"Wait!" Michael barked. "Film on my phone. My YouTube channel—direct donations only. No middleman cuts."
Tyler fumbled with his own phone. "But the team account has more—"
"Now." Michael's voice cracked like a whip.
He didn't have time to explain. The vial's clock was ticking, and every donation needed to funnel straight into his PayPal before the hype died.
No delays. No processing fees. No university skimming their cut.