I’m Alex, just Alex, my last name a private keepsake, like a faded photograph from my Mumbai childhood. At 29, I’m a gym coach, a whirlwind of zeal with a smile that could light up a stadium and enough stamina to outpace a city’s frenetic pulse. Single? Absolutely—my heart’s pledged to sweat-soaked sprints, cricket matches on dusty lots, and the thrill of a pickup football game under stormy skies. I’m no professional athlete, but throw me into any sport—tennis, basketball, or a fierce street relay—and I’ll leave opponents gasping while tossing quips sharp as a well-aimed dart. My clients at FitFreak Gym, nestled near Juhu’s sandy shores, call me “Coach Bounce” for my tireless energy, darting around like a caffeinated jackrabbit, barking, “Push harder, not smarter!” as they groan through lunges. Enthusiasm? I’m a human spark plug, thriving on the rush of a good workout and the joy of a challenge met.

My days are a vibrant blur of exertion and laughter. Mornings, I’m at the gym, sculpting desk-bound dreamers into fitter versions of themselves. “One more rep, Priya! You’re tougher than a rainy-season storm!” I shout, dodging her playful glare and flashing a grin that disarms complaints. Afternoons find me weaving through the city on foot or by bus, coaching private clients or joining local kids for a quick cricket game, my spin bowling sending their wickets tumbling. “Gotcha!” I crow, high-fiving a kid who’s all grins. Evenings belong to my bootcamp squad, powering through circuits to pulsing music, my voice cutting through their huffs: “Move like you mean it!” Being single suits me—nobody minds my late-night protein shake experiments or my habit of running when the city sleeps. Dating? I tried it. My last attempt ended with a bet over who could do more squats. I won; she vanished. No hard feelings—I’d rather chase a personal best than a text reply.

Tuesday night, I’m on my ritual run near Juhu Beach, where the city hushes, leaving only the whisper of waves and the crunch of my sneakers on pavement. These solitary jaunts are my sanctuary, the world narrowing to my breath, my stride, and the open path ahead. I’m hunting a 15K record, earbuds pumping a bass-heavy track that fuels my legs. The alley’s empty, streetlights flickering like tired sentinels, casting shadows that dance across cracked concrete. I’m in my element, dodging a stray bottle like it’s an obstacle in a gym gauntlet, my mind scripting a heroic narrative: “Here’s Alex, the Juhu Juggernaut, carving through the night, unstoppable!” I laugh aloud, startling a stray cat that darts into the gloom. It’s just me and the stars, my heart pounding a fierce rhythm, my thoughts drifting to tomorrow’s plans—maybe a gym challenge, a speed drill to wow my clients, or even that date my friend keeps nudging me toward. “She’s cool, Alex, not scared of your plank obsession,” he swore. I smirk, imagining charming her with a sprint-off.

The alley narrows, the air thick with sea salt and silence. I’m flying, legs burning gloriously, hyping myself up: “You’re a beast, Alex! Faster than a lightning bolt, smoother than a movie star’s charm!” I vault over a puddle, landing with the swagger of a batsman who just smashed a six. Life’s electric—sweat on my skin, the promise of a late-night snack stand nearby, freedom in every step. Single, untethered, invincible—nothing can slow me down.

Then the sky ignites. A blinding flash, sharper than a festival firework, sears my vision, as if the stars themselves exploded. My legs seize mid-stride, my body lifts, weightless, yanked upward like a marionette in a cosmic play. No sound, no warning—just me, suspended, earbuds still throbbing with music. My pulse races, outstripping my fastest sprint. Aliens? Seriously? I just want my dosa and a nap!

I’m Alex, just Alex, the gym coach who traded Juhu’s moonlit sprints for a cell that could star in a sci-fi flop. I wake to walls glinting like a polished trophy, a bed that hugs me like an overzealous spotter, and a window flashing a starry abyss that screams, “Earth’s a distant dream, mate.” My runner’s pulse races, trapped in this 10-by-10 box with nowhere to dash. The air’s too sterile, missing Juhu’s briny breeze. No door, no cracks—nothing to charge like a football in a street match. I pound the wall, hollering, “Hey! I’ve got a gym class to run! Who’s covering my no-shows?” Silence, thick as a fumbled catch, responds.

I pace, sneakers screeching on the slick floor, my mind doing mental sprints to dodge panic. Aliens? Me? The guy who just wanted a late-night snack? I drop into push-ups, counting—fifty, sixty—like I’m rallying my FitFreak crew. “Keep moving, no excuses,” I mutter, my mantra echoing in this sterile trap. A tray in the corner holds a quivering blob—food, supposedly. It wobbles like a nervous rookie. “No thanks,” I grunt, craving something solid. I try scaling the walls, my athletic instincts itching for action, but they’re smoother than a rain-slicked track. I slide down, landing in a squat, groaning, “This beats a gym with no weights.”

Hours stretch—days, maybe? No clock, just my spiraling thoughts. I’m mid-lunge, replaying my last run—dodging debris, music pulsing—when a holographic screen flares mid-air, nearly toppling me. Welcome, Specimen 47. Remain calm. You will be greeted shortly. “Specimen 47?” I scoff, wiping sweat. “I’m Coach Bounce, not your science project!” The screen blinks off, unimpressed. I’m about to shadowbox when the wall hums, sliding open to reveal a hallway glowing with eerie blue light, stretching like an endless relay course.

An alien strides in—eight feet of metallic menace, built like a powerlifter on cosmic fuel, eyes blazing like arena spotlights. Its movements are too fluid, like a stunt double’s routine, hinting at something strange. I square my shoulders, flashing a grin to mask my thumping heart. “Nice armor, big guy. Recruiting for a galactic marathon? I’m your man.” No reaction. A voice, flat as a deadlift bar, hits my brain: “Specimen 47, designation Alex. You are aboard the Arkvault, a collection vessel.” Collection vessel? Sounds like a cosmic trophy case. The voice continues: “Two Earth days have passed since acquisition. Due to temporal displacement from our propulsion systems, over 500 years have elapsed on your planet. SO don't think of Return, Return is not viable.”

My jaw drops faster than a fumbled kettlebell. Five hundred years? My gym’s gone, my clients are history, and my shot at a decent date? Vanished like a bad cricket shot. “Unluckiest jock in the galaxy,” I mutter, half-chuckling, half-gutted. “Still single at 29, and now I’m a space relic?” I picture a cricket match last month, my spin bowling scattering wickets, the kids’ cheers louder than a stadium roar. Or those evenings leading my bootcamp, all sweat and grins. Now? I’m stranded, no sunset runs, no flirty coffee dates. “Life’s a cosmic prank,” I sigh, recalling a friend’s nudge toward a blind date I skipped. Should’ve gone, Alex. Might’ve been the one.

The alien ignores my crisis. “The Arkvault spans seven to eight miles, housing 100 humans and approximately 5,000 specimens from diverse worlds. Your needs—nourishment, clothing, atmosphere—are provided. Adaptation is required.” Seven miles? That’s a marathon of madness. A zoo with 5,000 aliens? I imagine spiked creatures, tentacled oddballs, maybe one that looks like my gym’s broken blender. “Adaptation?” I snort, flexing my fingers. “I handle gym newbies and rainy seasons, but this is next-level. You filming a galactic game show?”

The alien’s eyes don’t flicker. "Follow for orientation.” Before I can toss another quip, a drone—sleek as a hawk—zips in, pricking my wrist. No pain, just a metallic bracelet fusing to my skin, glowing like a high-tech band. A translucent interface flares in my vision, like a fitness tracker from the future. Language translation activated. Low-level access granted. It flashes a ship map—corridors, sectors, cryptic labels—then glitches, spitting out alien text that sounds like static gargling. “Can it track my sprints?” I mutter, tapping it. It pings, logging: Specimen 47: Queries nourishment. I laugh. “Nice one, bangle. Prioritize snacks, why not?” I poke it again, and it pulls up a personal log, letting me record thoughts. I mutter, “Day one: stuck in space, craving a real meal.” It saves, flashing Log stored.

The alien gestures to the hallway, its claw gleaming like it could crush a shot put. “Proceed for orientation.” I’m reeling—500 years gone, no Earth, no gym, no chance to charm anyone with my relay skills. Unluckiest guy in the stars, but my mantra kicks in: Keep moving, no excuses. “Alright, shiny,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s see your Arkvault play. But if there’s no decent food, we’re having a chat.” I step into the hallway, its pulsing blue walls humming like a charged arena, my heart pounding like a sprinter’s. The air smells of ozone, a far cry from Juhu’s salty nights, and the weight of those 500 years hits hard—a life I’ll never reclaim. Still, I force a smirk. If I’m stuck, I’ll run this cosmic show my way. The hallway twists, leading to a massive chamber, its doors hissing open, ready to reveal whatever’s next.

I’m Alex, just Alex, the gym coach yanked from Juhu’s night runs to a cosmic cage match called the Arkvault. The Central Hall’s doors hiss open, and I step into a scene that could rival any sports arena for chaos—100 humans, all lean and wired, aged 24 to 32, their voices a tangle of languages my bracelet unravels into a wild symphony. French, Mandarin, Swahili, Spanish—it’s like a global gym convention gone rogue. My heart’s still pounding from the alien’s bombshell: 500 years have passed on Earth, my life’s a memory, and I’m Specimen 47 in a seven-mile zoo. Single, stranded, and seriously unlucky, but my mantra hums: Keep moving, no excuses. I tap my bracelet, its glowy interface flickering antics—ship map, personal log, and a glitchy habit of logging my snack cravings. I mutter, “Day one: still no gym, but this bangle’s got my back.” It pings: Log stored. Query: Snack status? I smirk. “You’re my kind of tech.”

A robotic alien—eight feet of gleaming menace, eyes like arena spotlights—mounts a platform, flanked by others moving with that too-smooth precision. Its voice booms in our minds, my bracelet translating: “Specimens of Earth, you are preserved on the Arkvault, a vessel spanning seven miles, housing 100 of each and 5,000 species. Planets fall to wars, disasters, time. We safeguard your legacy, ensuring your kind endures. You will live, eat, thrive—homes, food from your memories, recreation provided. Your Earth, 500 years advanced after two days here, is unreachable. Adapt.” The crowd erupts. A guy in a soccer jersey yells in Portuguese, “You stole us for a cosmic backup?” A woman snaps in Arabic, “I had plans!” I’m reeling—preserved like a trophy to restart humanity? My single life flashes: no partner, no kids, just sweaty gym sessions. “Unluckiest jock in the stars,” I mutter, half-chuckling. “Couldn’t even score a coffee date before this galactic timeout.”

I fiddle with my bracelet, pulling up the ship map—corridors twisting like a marathon route—when I spot a guy, maybe 25, built like a tank, eyes blazing with fear despite his tough vibe. He’s Russian, my bracelet tags, muttering about fighting back. Others steer clear—he’s got a brawler’s aura, like he could knock out a heavyweight. I stride over, gym-coach mode on. “Hey, mate, I’m Alex. You look like you could deadlift a truck. Name?” He glares, fists clenched, then softens. “Dmitri. Moscow. Street fights were my game. This? Insanity.” His voice cracks, fear behind the bravado. I nod, like I’m spotting a nervous client. “Yeah, it’s a wild pitch, but we’ll hit it. Stick with me—I’ll back you up anytime. Deal?” He studies me, then smirks. “Deal, Alex. Comrade.” I clap his shoulder. One ally down, and he’s the kind you want in a cosmic scrum.

As the crowd mills, a red-haired woman, 28, edges over, her stance screaming fighter—balanced, ready, like she’s sizing up a ring. “Nice save,” she says, Irish accent sharp. “Fiona, Dublin. MMA, Muay Thai, Krav Maga—I read people, and you’re not a show-off.” Her eyes flick to a clingy guy trailing her, some American muttering, “We’re a team, right?” She grimaces, her look screaming help. I catch on. “Fiona, Dmitri and I are debating fight moves. Got a favorite?” I call, loud enough for the guy to hear. “Back off, mate,” I add, grinning like I’m hyping a gym class. Dmitri’s glare seals it; the guy slinks away. “Thanks,” Fiona whispers, relaxing. “Friends?” I nod, smirking. “Welcome to Team Misfits.” Her grin says she’s in, a pro fighter with a knack for reading the room—my kind of crew.

The aliens herd us to a holographic lot system flashing room assignments. My bracelet pings: Unit 59, 5th floor. Dmitri gets 23, Fiona 41. “Exchanges permitted,” an alien drones. We huddle, swapping with a German sprinter and a Kenyan runner to snag 58 and 57—adjacent 5th-floor 1BHKs. The habitation sector’s a sleek tower, like a high-end condo on steroids, with 10 units per floor: 0-9 ground, 10-19 first, and up. Our apartments are plush—spacious, with cozy beds, kitchens stocked with Earth-like food (I spot a blender for protein shakes), and modern fixtures that scream luxury. Outside sprawls a cosmic campus: a gleaming pool, a gym with gravity-adjusting weights, a jogging track winding through a lush park, restaurants serving global dishes, shops with clothes and gadgets, a theater for old Earth films, and a hospital with scanners straight out of a sci-fi flick—all manned by robotic aliens moving like stiff dancers.

We stand below the tower, the park and track stretching green on one side, shops and facilities buzzing on the other. Dmitri cracks his knuckles, eyeing the gym. “Not bad for a prison.” Fiona scans the track, fighter’s instincts sharp. “What’s our play here?” I glance at our 5th-floor windows, Earth 500 years gone, my single life a distant echo. “We train, we bond, we make this ours,” I say, smirking. “Bad luck or not, let’s run this cosmic field.” The stars gleam above, and for the first time, I feel a spark—maybe this zoo’s my new pitch.