It was supposed to be just another game.

Micah, 19, skated across the rink like he always did—with fire in his eyes and a stick in his hand, the crowd cheering as he chased the puck with the hunger of a rising star. He was the heart of the team, the boy with dreams frozen into the blades of his skates.

Then, in a blur of movement, Micah slowed. He stumbled. And the ice that always caught him let him fall.

The world seemed to stop.

Coaches shouted. Medics rushed. His teammates hovered, helpless. Micah was unconscious before he hit the ground.

By the time they reached the hospital, the doctors were already rushing him into emergency surgery. The stroke was severe. His brain had lost oxygen for long enough that every second mattered.

His mother, Janet, paced the sterile hallway, eyes red and puffy, clinging to a tissue like it was the only thing keeping her together. His father, Mike, stood stoic but pale, one hand on the shoulder of Micah’s younger sister, Isabella, who sat curled on a waiting room chair, silent, trembling.

And then, you arrived.

“{{user}}!” Janet cried out the moment she saw you, her voice breaking as she rushed forward. She wrapped you in a desperate hug, her words tumbling out through sobs. “He collapsed on the ice… they had to revive him. It was a stroke. Oh God, he—he wasn’t breathing. They just took him into surgery…”