Rise Of Michael Jordan

Chapter 9

They cut me loose after the agreement was made. The ropes fell from my wrists, but the weight of the president’s words clung heavier than any chain. By the time I made it back to the dorm, my body was free, but my mind was far from it.

I collapsed onto the edge of my bed, running a hand across my face, trying to shake off the lingering sting of that meeting. Yet before he left, the president had paused at the door, and something inside me had forced the question out.

“Tell me something, Mr. President,” I had said, my voice colder than I intended. “Did you and the former Prime Minister, Dr. Milton Carroway, have a fight? Is that why he resigned so suddenly?”

The president’s steps had stilled. For a heartbeat, silence pressed between us. Then, slowly, he turned his head just enough for me to catch the faintest curve of a smile.

And then—he walked out.

I had known in that moment that something was off. Something was being kept from me. But it wasn’t my battle. Not now.

I lay back, intending to steal a nap and push the thoughts away when my phone vibrated on the desk. The sharp buzz pulled me upright.

I answered, and the sound of soft, broken sobs froze me in place.

“Aria…” I whispered my wife’s name, and the crack in my voice betrayed me.

“Kael…” Her voice was trembling, raw. “Can you come right now?”

My chest tightened. “Is something wrong at home? Did Liam do something again?”

There was silence on the line, then her voice came, weighted with fear.

“Just come home. Please. There’s something important I need to talk to you about.”

“I’ll be there,” I said instantly, already on my feet.

I shoved my feet into my shoes, lacing them with rushed fingers. My pulse thundered. By the time I stepped outside, Mia was just walking into the dorm.

She smiled when she saw me. “Where are you rushing off to at this hour?”

“Home,” I muttered, distracted.

“Home? At this time?” She tilted her head, glancing at the clock on her wrist. “What’s so urgent it can’t wait until morning?”

I paused only long enough to meet her eyes. “I don’t know. But my wife wants to see me. That’s enough.”

Mia’s smile faltered into concern. “Then… should I come with you?”

I shook my head. “No. Don’t worry. I’ll go alone.”

And then I was gone, feet pounding against the street, each step heavier with dread I couldn’t name.

When I reached home, the night air was cool, but the sight that greeted me made it feel suffocating.

Aria was waiting outside, arms wrapped around herself as though she were holding her world together with sheer force. My heart lurched.

I rushed to her. “Aria! What’s wrong? Why are you outside like this?”

She looked up, tears streaking her face. Her voice cracked as she spoke.

“Kael… I need to ask you something.”

Her trembling words cut deeper than any blade.

“Ask me what?” I demanded softly, grabbing her arms.

She choked, her body shaking. “Could our son… could Liam really be born with the psychopath gene?”

The world tilted beneath me. I stared at her, my voice rough. “What? Aria, why would you even say that?”

“What’s going on?” I pressed, my chest pounding as I searched her eyes.

She broke. Tears poured as she sobbed, and I pulled her against me, holding her tight. “Aria, breathe. Pull yourself together and just tell me what’s wrong.”

Her hands trembled as she pushed something into mine. A small sketchbook. A child’s drawing book.

“I found this inside Liam’s box,” she whispered.

I flipped it open, and my blood ran cold. On the page was a chilling sketch of a skeleton—its grin wide, its hand gripping something sharp. I had seen drawings like this before, in classified files. Psychopaths often sketched their victims before acting on their impulses.

Aria’s voice shook. “I asked him what it meant… and he said it was his teacher. The one who always beats him. He said… he wanted to kill him.”

Her sobs tore through the night. “Kael, tell me… is Liam really a psychopath?”

I stopped at the door when Aria’s voice broke the silence.

“He’s inside,” she said softly, her eyes darting toward the room. “Go in, Kael… see for yourself.”

Her tone carried a heaviness that I couldn’t ignore. My chest tightened, but I pushed the door open anyway.

The creak was soft, almost too soft against the sound that greeted me—

the faint clatter of small plastic pieces.

Liam.

He sat on the floor, legs crossed, completely absorbed in the toy scattered before him. Blocks. Soldiers. A battlefield of his own making.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t even flinch when I entered.

For a long moment, I just stood there, watching him.

How calm he looked, how *focused*. The world could’ve been burning outside and Liam would still be sitting there, fitting the last piece of his miniature war together.

Slowly, I walked forward and lowered myself beside him. The floor was cold beneath me, but it grounded me as I sat close, careful not to break his rhythm.

He didn’t glance at me. Not once.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the folded sheet. The drawing. The one that haunted me since the first time I laid eyes on it.

Quietly, I unfolded it and placed it in front of him, between his scattered soldiers.

My voice came out steady, though the weight of it pressed against my ribs.

“Liam,” I murmured, “was it really you who drew this?”

Finally, he stopped.

His small fingers hovered in the air, pausing mid-motion, before he slowly turned his head—just slightly. His eyes skimmed the picture, not me. Not yet.

“Yes,” he whispered. Then, after a beat, his lips curled faintly. “That’s my teacher.”

I stiffened. “Your… teacher?”

He finally looked at me, and the way his eyes met mine—it was like staring into a void that had no bottom. Empty. Sharp. And so, so wrong for a boy his age.

“Yes,” he said again, his tone flat, eerie. Then, without hesitation, he added, “I want to kill him.”

The words slid from his tongue as though he was reciting a lesson, not confessing something dark and grotesque. His voice carried no tremor, no fear.

Only certainty.

My pulse hammered in my throat.

“What… did you just say?” I forced out.

Liam tilted his head, the faintest smile twitching at his lips.

“I want to kill him,” he repeated, this time clearer, almost savoring each syllable. “He deserves it. They all do.”

I stared at Liam for a long while, my mind circling questions I wasn’t sure I wanted the answers to. But I couldn’t just sit here, not when every fiber of me was screaming that something was wrong with my boy.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice. Don’t scare him, Kael. Keep it gentle.

“Liam…” I said slowly, leaning closer, “Tell me the truth. From where did you learn… to kill people?”

He didn’t even flinch. His little hands kept fiddling with the toy in front of him, the edges scraping across the floor as though my words carried no weight. Then, in a flat, unnerving tone, he finally answered.

“I’m not sure,” he muttered, his voice almost detached, his eyes never leaving the toy. “But… I think… if I do what’s in the picture—” his lips curled into a faint smile, cold and empty, “—they’ll die. Just like that.”

My breath hitched. A chill ran down my spine. He said it with no hesitation, no fear. Like death was nothing more than… play.

I felt my chest tighten. “Liam… listen to me.” I placed a hand gently on his small shoulder. “There are two kinds of people in this world, do you understand?”

Finally, he lifted his head, those innocent yet disturbingly distant eyes piercing into mine.

“There are good people,” I continued carefully, “and there are bad people. Good people… they do everything not to hurt others. They protect. They choose kindness even when it’s hard.”

I“But bad people—they destroy, they kill, they take life as if it means nothing. That’s not who we are, Liam. That’s not who *you* are.”

Silence. His toy dropped from his fingers with a dull thud.

Then his little voice cut through the air, quiet yet sharp.

“…Who exactly are you, Kael?”

The question stunned me. My throat tightened, but I forced a smile. “Me? Of course I’m a good person, Liam.”

His gaze darkened, and for the first time, he looked directly into me—through me—like he could peel my soul apart with just his eyes.

“You’re lying,” he said flatly.

My heart stilled. “W-What do you mean?” I asked carefully. “Why would you say I’m lying, Liam?”

His lips curved—not in innocence, not in joy, but in something chilling.

“Because people always say I’m just like my father.” His little voice trembled on the edge of something dangerous. “They say… you killed a lot of people.”

The words stabbed through me like ice. My world spun for a second. And all I could do was stare at my son—my own flesh and blood—while his words echoed in my skull like a curse I could never escape.

I crouched lower until my eyes were level with Liam’s. His little face was still clouded, still holding onto that weight no child should ever bear.

“Listen to me, Liam,” I said, my voice firm but soft, the kind that begged to be believed. “What you’ve heard about me… it’s a lie. People talk. They whisper, they twist things they don’t understand, and they make their own stories. But those stories… they’re conspiracies. Half-truths built to tear a man down.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t look away.

“One day,” I continued, forcing myself not to flinch at my own words, “when you’re older… when you’re strong enough to carry it, you’ll understand what really happened between me and my comrades. But for now, what matters is this—you don’t let people’s words shape who you are. You hear me?”

He tilted his head, curious, silent.

“You must never let their reactions, their anger, their judgments turn you into someone dark. Liam…” I placed my hand gently over his small fingers, “you must never hurt people again. Do you understand the gravity of that? Bad people destroy… good people protect. You must protect, always.”

For the first time, something shifted in his eyes—confusion giving way to innocence that still lived somewhere inside him.

“Promise me,” I said firmly, my heart pounding in my chest. “Promise me you won’t ever do something like that again.”

His lips trembled, then he whispered, “I promise, Papa. I won’t do it again.”

Relief poured into me like air after drowning. I rubbed his head with a soft smile, messing up his hair the way I used to when he was younger. He giggled faintly, the sound fragile but real, and I played with him until his breathing evened out, until sleep claimed him.

I stood, my chest heavy but steady, and walked out quietly. Aria was waiting just outside, her hands twisted together, her eyes swollen from crying.

“Well?” she asked in a hushed, breaking voice.

I took a breath. “We’ll take him to the hospital tomorrow. They’ll run the tests, and we’ll confirm everything about Liam’s… identity.”

Her lips parted, trembling. “Does that mean…” she whispered, almost choking, “Liam is also a monster?”

I clenched my fists, forcing myself not to let her words break me. “No,” I said firmly, shaking my head. “I can’t conclude that right now. And neither should you.”

But she stepped back, shaking her head violently. “No. No… it can’t be true. He’s my son. Our son. He’s not—he can’t be—”

I caught her before her knees buckled, wrapping my arms around her trembling frame. “Aria, breathe,” I whispered, holding her tight. “He’s still just a boy. Don’t let fear eat you alive. We’ll face this together, whatever the truth is.”

Her sobs soaked into my shirt until they finally quieted, her breathing steadying against me.

After a long while, she pulled back, weary but calmer. I brushed her hair away from her face. “I’ll come tomorrow. We’ll go together for Liam.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes still glassy.

“Goodnight, Aria,” I said gently before turning and walking away.

The night air was sharp against my skin as I strode down the street, my thoughts heavy, my chest heavier. Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. I lifted it to my ear without even checking the screen.

“Hello,” a familiar voice purred. Seraphina Voss.

My jaw tightened. “Why are you calling me at this hour?”

She chuckled softly, her tone calm but carrying weight. “Because the President needs your help.”

I slowed, my instincts flaring. “Help? In what way?”

Her voice dropped lower, serious now. “The President… has a child. A secret one. Born before he was sworn into office. A girl. She’s wild, rebellious… always running away, always putting herself in danger. He wants you to find her. Protect her. Safeguard her from what’s coming.”

I stopped dead in the street, my grip tightening around the phone.

“And why me?” I asked sharply.

“Because,” she said smoothly, “you’re the only one capable of keeping her alive. And anything you want in return…” she let the words hang heavy, “the President will grant it.”

Silence stretched between us until she finally said the name.

“Her name is Amanda Jone. But right now, she’s hiding under another identity. She works as a cleaner at Delacroix… under the name Mia Clinton.”

My heart froze. Mia… Clinton?