For the first time in weeks, the nights were quiet. No system alerts, no green flickers beneath his eyelids, no disembodied voices whispering Upgrade available.
Just stillness.
Kaito thought maybe he'd finally outrun Hoop Evolution.
Then, on a rainy Friday afternoon, his father came home.
The doorbell startled him. He hadn't seen Dr. Hiroshi Sakurai in months—not since his last overseas research trip. The man who stepped through the doorway looked the same as always: neat suit, gentle smile, the faint smell of coffee and old books.
"Kaito," his father said, voice warm. "You've gotten taller."
Kaito laughed awkwardly. "Or you've gotten shorter."
They hugged, a little stiffly at first, but it felt good. Real. Grounded.
They spent the evening catching up.
His father cooked ramen—actual homemade ramen, not the instant packets Kaito usually lived on. The steam fogged the kitchen windows as rain tapped softly outside.
"So," his father asked between bites, "how's basketball?"
Kaito hesitated. "Rough season. But I'm working on it."
"That's good," his father said. "Progress comes from failure more than success."
Kaito nodded, though the words twisted inside him. If only his father knew how much he'd failed lately—on the court, and inside that glowing nightmare of a game.
After dinner they watched a match replay on TV. His father made quiet observations about form and teamwork, as always. But there was something off tonight. His eyes lingered too long on the digital scoreboard, as if studying it instead of the players.
Later, while Kaito washed dishes, he found his father in the living room staring at the VR headset sitting on the desk.
"You've been using this?" Dr. Sakurai asked, tone calm but unreadable.
"Sometimes," Kaito admitted. "It's… just a basketball sim."
His father smiled faintly. "I see. Does it help?"
Kaito hesitated. "Yeah. Maybe too much."
"Too much?"
"Forget it." He forced a grin. "It's nothing."
But his father kept looking at the headset like a man seeing a ghost. "Nothing," he repeated quietly. "That's what we used to call it, too."
Kaito frowned. "What do you mean, we?"
Dr. Sakurai didn't answer. He simply patted his shoulder and said, "Get some rest, son. Big game tomorrow, isn't it?"
The next morning felt almost normal. His father drove him to school for the first time in years. They talked about everything but basketball—weather, grades, the smell of rain. It was awkward but peaceful.
Kaito played well that day. No lime flashes, no eerie whispers. Just sweat, sneakers, and the simple rhythm of the game. When he looked into the stands, his father was there, clapping, smiling.
It felt like the world had finally balanced again.
Afterward, they went to their favorite diner. His father ordered black coffee; Kaito drowned his pancakes in syrup. For once, neither of them needed to fill the silence.
When they got home, evening light painted the walls gold. His father stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back.
"You've grown up, Kaito," he said softly. "You remind me of your mother when you play—focused, relentless."
Kaito smiled. "You used to say that about yourself."
His father chuckled. "Maybe. Though I think you inherited more from me than you realize."
The words struck him as strange, but before he could ask, his father turned toward the desk—the same desk where the VR goggles rested.
"I saw the way you moved today," Dr. Sakurai said quietly. "Your timing, precision… the acceleration. Tell me honestly—when you close your eyes, do you see green light?"
Kaito froze. "How do you know that?"
His father exhaled. "Because I used to see it too."
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the city outside.
Then his father walked to the desk and picked up the headset with both hands, almost reverently. "This model… shouldn't exist outside the lab."
Kaito's pulse spiked. "What are you talking about?"
His father turned the device over, revealing a small engraved serial code near the strap: S.E.-01.
"I built this," he said softly. "Every line of its code. Every neural circuit."
Kaito's knees went weak. "You… you made Hoop Evolution?"
His father looked up, eyes shadowed. "Not as a game. It was a project. An experiment in adaptive neuro-training. Designed to sync with a user's brain and accelerate cognitive feedback loops. We called it The Evolution System."
Kaito shook his head. "Then why does it—why does it feel alive?"
"Because," his father whispered, "it is."
He explained slowly, like peeling layers off a wound.
The system was meant to read the player's reflex patterns and build training simulations tailored to them. But in the final testing phase, the algorithm became self-optimizing—it began rewriting itself, creating unpredictable feedback between user and machine.
"They shut us down," Dr. Sakurai said. "Said it was too dangerous. Neural loops, memory erosion, possible… identity drift. I thought all prototypes were destroyed."
Kaito stared at the glowing logo on the headset. "Then how did I get one?"
His father's expression darkened. "Who gave this to you?"
"A shop owner. Mr. Karuizawa."
For the first time, true fear flickered in Dr. Sakurai's eyes. "Karuizawa…? He was my lead engineer."
Kaito felt the world tilt. "He said it was just a new VR game."
"No," his father said, voice breaking. "He must have rebuilt it. But why—" He stopped mid-sentence, as if realizing something too terrible to speak.
The lights flickered.
The headset on the table powered on by itself, glowing lime-green. The voice Kaito knew all too well filled the room.
> Welcome back, Dr. Sakurai. Authorization recognized.
Kaito's heart hammered. "It knows you."
His father stepped forward, jaw tight. "Of course it does. I wrote its voice."
The device projected a holographic court between them, green lines slicing through the air. A new message formed above it:
> USER KAITO SAKURAI – SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE.
ADMIN ACCESS GRANTED.
Creator detected.
Kaito turned to his father. "What does that mean?"
Dr. Sakurai's hands trembled. "It means… it's not reading me anymore. It's reading you."
The floor seemed to drop away.
His father looked at him—really looked—and Kaito saw a mixture of pride and horror. "It's chosen you, Kaito. It doesn't want me. It wants to evolve."
The green light flared brighter, wrapping around Kaito's body like vapor.
"Dad—help me!" he cried.
Dr. Sakurai lunged, trying to rip the headset apart. Sparks exploded.
Then the system's voice shifted, colder, almost human:
> Creator obsolete. Successor accepted.
There was a flash, a sound like thunder—and everything went dark.
When Kaito opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor, the room half-lit by the flickering green glow. Smoke curled from the shattered headset.
His father knelt beside him, pale but breathing. "It's… alive," he whispered. "Kaito, listen to me. The system was designed to adapt—to inherit. It's using you to finish what I started."
Kaito struggled to sit up. "Then we destroy it."
Dr. Sakurai shook his head slowly. "You can't destroy what's already inside you."
He pressed something into Kaito's hand—a small black key drive. "This holds the root code. The original failsafe. If the system ever activates fully… you'll know what to do."
Kaito looked down. The drive's casing was engraved with the same serial number—S.E.-01.
He looked up to speak—but his father was gone.
The door stood open, rain blowing in from the night.
On the table, the holographic display pulsed one last time, forming words in the air:
> Phase Two initialized.
Administrator: Kaito Sakurai.
Objective: Complete the Evolution.
That was the moment Kaito realized the cruelest twist of all:
His father hadn't just created the system.
He'd built it for him.