Rise Of Michael Jordan

Chapter 12

“Kael,” he said, carefully but firmly, “your son is not a psychopath. Liam is clean—his brain scans are sharp, healthy, and his cognitive responses are even above average.”

For a moment, I just stared at him, the words refusing to sink in. Not… a psychopath?

He continued, flipping through the file. “There’s no trace of the Clean Seed mutation. His brain is sharp—very sharp, Kael. He’s not carrying that demon gene. He’s free.”

A breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding burst from my chest. My shoulders sagged as relief washed through me like warm rain. My boy was safe.

I lowered my head, muttering, “Thank you, Havelock. Thank you…”

The doctor studied me for a moment, then asked, “Kael, what made you think Liam was… like that?”

I rubbed my face, tired. “His actions. Strange drawings, his words, the way he looks at people sometimes. It reminded me too much of the carriers we used to hunt. I thought… maybe he was one of them.”

Havelock leaned forward, voice steady. “Children act strangely when they feel isolated, Kael. What Liam needs isn’t suspicion—it’s patience. Get him involved in activities, and sometimes give him some positive outlets for that sharp brain of his. And most of all, make sure he feels safe with you. That matters more than anything else.”

I nodded slowly, the weight in my chest lightening. “I’ll do that. Thank you, doctor.”

I lifted Liam into my arms, holding him close.

As I turned to leave, Havelock called out, “Kael.”

I stopped, turned back. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” he asked, eyes narrowing with concern.

I managed a small, tired smile. “I’m much better now.”

With that, I carried my boy out into the light.

---

The city streets were waking as we walked side by side. Liam was quiet, his small hand swinging in mine. But then he stopped abruptly in front of a toy store.

I followed his gaze—he was staring at a model airplane, painted in silver and blue, hanging just above the shelf.

I crouched down beside him. “Do you want that one?”

He hesitated, then nodded once, eyes never leaving the plane.

I checked my wallet. Not much left. Still, I took his hand. “Come on, let’s get it.”

Inside, while I counted the bills, a little girl’s voice cut through the air.

“Mommy, that’s the monster!”

I froze. My jaw tightened.

The girl’s mother quickly pushed her, pulling her close. “Don’t say that! Apologize to him right now.”

But the girl resisted. Instead, she pointed at Liam. “It’s true! He’s the monster from school! Nobody likes him because he’s scary!”

My gaze flicked to Liam. He didn’t even flinch. He simply picked the toy plane from the shelf, walked back to me, and handed it over. His small, calm face broke my heart.

I paid quickly, ignoring the awkward silence around us. Outside, I looked down at my son, who clutched his plane tightly, his steps light as if nothing had happened.

He didn’t care. Or maybe… he had stopped caring.

---

At the restaurant, I ordered him sweet-and-sour chicken with fried rice, and dumplings on the side. He dug in happily, humming softly, the earlier insult never crossing his face.

But I couldn’t stop watching him. The way he brushed things off so easily, like none of it mattered… it worried me.

“Liam,” I asked gently, “doesn’t it bother you? What that girl said?”

He shook his head, chewing. “No.”

“No?” I pressed.

He swallowed, then looked up at me. “They never want to play with me anyway. They call me monster. They say I’m weird. So… I don’t care. I don’t like playing with them either.”

My chest tightened. “And you’re not mad about that?”

Again, he shook his head. “No.”

I forced a small smile and patted his head. “Alright. Keep eating.”

He grinned faintly and lifted his chopsticks. But just as he was about to take another bite, the door to the restaurant opened.

A man stepped in, carrying a worn duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His clothes were rugged, mismatched—too many layers for the weather. His eyes scanned the room, sharp and restless.

I could already sense danger.

I tensed, watching him carefully.

But then Liam tugged at my sleeve, fumbling with the cap of his water bottle. “Dad, can you open this for me?”

I tore my eyes from the man, forced my hands steady, and twisted the cap loose.

I handed the bottle back to Liam. His small hands gripped it carefully, and he tilted it back, drinking like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. For a moment, I just watched him—watched the way his throat bobbed, the way his eyes closed in satisfaction. I felt the pride of being a father.

And then the screaming began.

The man from earlier had pulled a gun from his duffel. The crack of gunfire ripped through the restaurant, shattering glass, tearing into tables. People ran in every direction, shrieking, plates crashing to the floor.

“Down!” I growled, scooping Liam into my arms and diving under a wooden bench. The boy clung to me, his small body trembling as I shielded him with my own.

Bullets sprayed across the restaurant, splintering chairs, hammering against the walls. The shooter’s eyes locked onto us, and he fired relentlessly, forcing me to press Liam tighter into my chest. I couldn’t even breathe—I just took a shield.

The clicks came next. The sound of his empty magazine.

I looked up—his gun was dry. My hand darted out, snatching a glass bottle from the floor. I rose halfway and hurled it at him. He dodged, snarling, and ripped a knife from his belt, charging straight at me.

I pushed Liam further beneath the bench. “Stay down, son!”

Then I met the man head-on.

The clash was violent, raw. His blade slashed at me, each strike meant to kill. I blocked with my forearm, pain lancing through me, then countered with a flurry of punches. He was strong, desperate—but not trained like me.

I caught his arm mid-swing, twisted, and drove my fist into his face. I heard the sound of his bone crunched, then the blood sprayed. His body collapsed under the blow, and he stumbled back, dazed.

But instead of fleeing, he fumbled at his waist and yanked out a hidden pistol. His shaking hand lifted it toward me.

“No—”

I surged forward, my knuckles slamming into his jaw with a brutal crack. His body went limp, eyes rolling back. The pistol clattered from his grip as he fell lifeless to the ground.

For a heartbeat, all I heard was my own ragged breathing.

Liam.

I spun, racing back to the bench. My heart froze.

He was lying there. My boy.

A dark pool spread beneath his head, his forehead split by a small, red hole. Blood streamed down his pale face.

“No…” My voice broke, every organ in my body ceasing to function. My knees buckled as I collapsed beside him. “Liam! Liam, no—”

His little chest still moved. Weak. Shallow. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and scared.

“Dad…” he whispered, his voice cracked. “Am I… going to die?”

Tears blurred my sight. I gathered him into my arms, rocking him, clutching his small body as if my grip alone could keep his soul tethered. “No, no, no—you won’t. You hear me? You won’t! Daddy’s here. You’re going to be fine.”

His blood seeped through my shirt, hot and sticky.

“Help!” I roared, my voice raw, breaking. “Somebody help!”

People stood frozen, gawking. Some backed away, afraid. None came forward. My sobs tore through me.

Sirens wailed outside. Red and blue lights cut through the glass. Police stormed in, weapons drawn, scanning the scene. One officer spotted me and my bleeding son.

“Over here!” he barked. “Get the emergency team in—now!”

Paramedics rushed in, their voices urgent, their hands already working. “We’ve got a child, gunshot wound to the head!”

“No—don’t take him!” I clutched tighter.

“Sir, we need to work!” one paramedic snapped, prying Liam from my arms. Tubes and bandages covered my son as they lowered him onto a stretcher. His eyes rolled weakly toward me. I kept pace beside them as they wheeled him into the flashing ambulance.

I climbed in after him, my clothes soaked with his blood. My hands trembled, dripping crimson onto the floor.

At the hospital, the doors burst open. Nurses and doctors swarmed, rushing him down corridors, shouting codes I couldn’t understand. They pushed him into the ICU, the doors slamming shut in my face.

I stood there, frozen, staring at my palms covered in my son’s life. My knees weakened, but I held myself against the wall.

Minutes felt like years.

Then—“Kael!”

I turned. My breath caught.

Aria.

She was running toward me, her hair wild, her face pale. She stopped when she saw the blood staining me, her hands flying to her mouth. Her whole body shook.

“What—” her voice cracked, breaking into sobs. “What happened to my son?”

I tried to steady her, reaching out, but she pushed past me, pounding on the ICU doors. Her scream tore through the hospital halls. “What happened to Liam? What happened to my baby!”

“Aria—please—” My voice wavered as I pulled her back. “You need to calm down—”

But she collapsed to her knees, sobbing, clutching her chest as if her heart had been ripped apart.

I dropped beside her, wrapping my arms around her trembling frame. “We’ll get him through this,” I whispered, my own tears blurring everything. “We have to…”

I Hours passed like years until at last the doors swung open. A doctor emerged, his mask hanging loose, his eyes were heavy.

Aria bolted to her feet, storming him. “What happened to my son?!” she cried, clutching his sleeve.

“Ma’am, please—” he tried to calm her, but she ripped his hand away, screaming,

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down! Tell me what happened to my Liam!”

The doctor’s gaze shifted to me. “Are you the father?”

I swallowed hard, standing tall though my knees wanted to buckle. “Yes… of course, I’m his father. Tell me what happened to my son.”

Then suddenly the ICU doors pushed open wider. My stomach turned. Liam was wheeled out on a stretcher, his head was wrapped in thick white bandages, and the sheets were drenched with blood. The blood was so much. His small chest rose shallowly under the machines. He looked half alive, half gone.

Aria screamed, lunging forward. “My baby!” She tried to grab him, but I pulled her back, holding her tightly even as she kicked and wailed in my arms. Tears blurred my vision, but I forced my voice steady. “Doctor… tell us. Now. What happened to our son?”

The doctor exhaled and gestured for us to follow. “Please… my office.”

We followed him, silent except for Aria’s sobs echoing down the sterile corridor. Inside his office, he flicked on a screen, medical scans flashing to life.

He pointed with his pen. “The bullet entered here—through the frontal bone.” He traced the glowing image where Liam’s skull had been breached. “It fractured the left frontal lobe and penetrated into the cerebral cortex.”

Aria gasped, her nails digging into my arm.

“The operation stabilized him,” the doctor continued. “But… the projectile damaged neural tissue. We fear possible memory loss, motor impairment… and post-traumatic complications. When he wakes—if he wakes—his condition will have to be assessed carefully.”

Aria broke. Her cry shattered the sterile silence of the room. She fell to her knees, covering her face. My heart clenched, but I crouched and wrapped my arms around her. I was whispering to her, "We’ll get through this… I promise. He’ll fight. He’s strong—just like you.”

When we stepped out of the office, the quiet was gone. The hospital lobby was swarmed with flashing cameras. Reporters barked questions like vultures.

“Mr. Kael, we heard about your son—how is he?”

“Do you think this is retaliation from people you wronged?”

“Is this connected to the comrades you allegedly betrayed?”

Allegedly. My fists curled. Even now, they still believed the lies. That I had killed my own brothers-in-arms. How gullible.

I opened my mouth to answer when a new commotion rippled through the crowd. “The former Prime Minister, Dr. Carroway Milton of Black Spire, has arrived!”

Heads turned. The sea of people parted as Milton walked in, flanked by his towering aide and Jessica. He carried himself with polished arrogance, but his bow to us was low. He must have rehearsed it so well.

“My deepest sympathies,” Milton said smoothly. “I am truly sorry for what happened to your boy.”

His words bounced off me like stones on steel.

“I assure you,” he continued, “from this moment, Liam will receive the best treatment available. My personal resources are at your disposal.”

I scoffed, stepping close, locking eyes with him. “Tell me, Milton—can you swear you had no hand in this?”

He tilted his head, smile faint. “Understandable, Kael. You’re grieving, desperate for someone to blame. I won’t take offense.” He was twisting it, framing me as unstable before the cameras. Clever bastard.

“Really,” I muttered. “We’ll see about that.” I turned, guiding Aria away.

Later, I found a quiet café for her. She sat hunched over the cup I’d bought, her hands were trembling around it. I sat beside her, watching the tremor in her lip.

“Kael…” her voice was small. “You never told me about the results before.”

I looked into her red, swollen eyes. “Liam is free,” I said firmly. “He doesn’t carry the psychopath gene.”

Her body sagged, then she broke again, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t know… God, Kael, I thought—how could I think my own son was a monster? I’ll never forgive myself.”

I pulled her against me, stroking her hair. “Enough. None of this is your fault. Everything will be fine. We just need him to wake up.”

Just then, my phone buzzed. *Seraphina Voss.* I answered quickly.

“Kael,” her voice was sharp, urgent. “We checked into what you asked. You were right. We traced the license plate from the attack vehicle. It’s foreign… the payment was made from an account under Milton’s Black Spire holdings.”

I tightened my grip on the phone, teeth grinding. “That bastard is a sly snake.”

“Be careful,” Seraphina warned. “Milton’s influence runs deep. You can’t move against him recklessly. And Kael—there is something you need to know. We’re investigating, there is possible ties between Milton and Malik Radwan.”