Rise Of Michael Jordan

Chapter 5

My eyes locked on the four masked men, the rope-blade still hanging from my hand.

“Is this the government still trying to put me on the ground,” I asked, voice low, “or is this Malik Radwan’s idea of a warm welcome?”

They didn’t answer. Just glanced at each other—quick, silent.

I knew that look.

They weren’t here to talk.

“Fine,” I said, letting the rope drop. My stance lowered, my blood settling into that cold, steady rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. “If you’re not ready to talk… be ready to die.”

They moved first.

The first one lunged with a baton. I sidestepped, caught his wrist, and twisted until I felt the sharp crack of bone giving way. His scream cut short when my elbow smashed into his jaw, sending him into the wall.

The second came in high with a knife. I caught his arm mid-swing, drove my palm into his shoulder joint—once, twice—until it crunched like snapping wood. His blade clattered to the floor. I drove a fist into his chest so hard I felt ribs shatter under my knuckles. He crumpled, gasping, trying to breathe through a lung that no longer worked right.

The third didn’t hesitate, swinging low at my legs. I jumped, planting both feet into his chest midair. The impact sent him sprawling onto the table, which split clean in two. He didn’t get back up.

The last one thought he was smarter—keeping distance, circling. I advanced slowly, letting him think he had time. When he finally rushed me, I hooked his arm, yanked him forward, and slammed my knee into his face. The mask tore as his head snapped back, blood splattering on the floorboards.

Silence.

Just the sound of ragged breathing—none of it mine.

I grabbed the nearest one by the collar and hauled him upright. His legs dangled like dead weight.

“Who sent you?” I growled.

He stared at me through the eyeholes of his mask. No answer.

Then I heard a movement.

A sharp flick of his hand, and a cloud of fine powder burst into my face. I turned my head, but some of it still stung my eyes, burning hot. I shoved him away, blinking hard, my vision blurring.

By the time the haze cleared, they were gone—vanished through the open window, their boots pounding the alley as they scattered into the night.

I stood there, chest heaving, staring at the empty street beyond.

Then my phone rang.

I answered without looking at the screen. “Yeah?”

“Kael!” My wife’s voice was shaking, frantic. “Kael, you need to come—now—”

My grip tightened on the phone. “What’s happening?”

Her words tumbled over themselves. “The police station—the local station—you need to come here right now!”

“I’m on my way,” I said, already reaching for my coat.

The line went dead.

Not long I reached the police station. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Aria was standing there in the reception area, her hands were trembling, her eyes darting like a cornered animal.

“Aria…” My voice was low, almost a whisper. “What happened to you? Why are you here—alone—at this hour?”

Her lips trembled before she broke. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her voice cracked.

“It’s… it’s Liam.”

My stomach dropped.

I brushed past her and moved deeper into the station. That’s when I saw him—my boy—slumped over a table, his small hands and clothes stained with blood.

“Liam!” I rushed to him, scooping him into my arms. “What happened to you?”

A policeman stepped forward, his eyes wary. “Sir… are you the father of Liam?”

“Yes,” I said, holding my son tighter. “I’m his father.”

The officer gestured toward a corner where several other children sat, their parents hovering protectively over them.

“These kids reported… they saw your son butchering a dog in the neighborhood. They said he cut it open and removed the intestines.”

His words hit me like a blade to the chest. My grip on Liam tightened as I looked down at his peaceful, sleeping face.

“I… I’m sorry,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “Please… to the dog’s owners—whoever you are—” I looked toward the group of murmuring parents, “—I’m begging you. He’s just a child. I’ll make sure nothing like this happens again.”

But the parents’ stares were cold, their whispers sharp as knives.

“Murderer,” one muttered. “Just like his father… who slaughtered his own comrades.”

Another parent stepped forward, his voice filled with contempt. “You and your wife need to watch your son. He is never to play with our children again.”

Others echoed it, nodding and muttering as they gathered their kids. One by one, they left, their glares lingering on us until the door closed behind them.

I pulled Liam close to my chest, feeling his slow, even breathing against me.

The officer cleared his throat. “You’ll need to fill out some documents before you leave. We’re letting him go because he’s underage. But if we find him involved in something like this again…” He paused. “There will be punishment.”

I signed where they told me, my mind elsewhere, my hands mechanical. Then I nodded to the officers. “Thank you.”

We stepped back into the night. The streets were quiet, damp with the smell of rain. Liam’s head rested against my shoulder, his weight both comforting and heavy.

“When did he start behaving like this?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

Aria shook her head quickly. “He’s been fine. I don’t know when… I just noticed lately he’s been more… aggressive.” Her voice broke, and tears welled again.

I touched her arm. “Don’t cry. We’ll fix this. You’ll be fine.”

Her gaze flicked toward Liam. “Kael… what if our son is also a victim of the Red Serpent?”

I stopped walking and quickly pressed a hand over her mouth. “Don’t let people hear you say that.” I glanced around the empty street, lowering my voice. “Tomorrow, I’ll take him to get checked. We’ll see if he has… the psychopath gene in his brain.”

She pulled Liam away from my arms instantly, clutching him protectively. “No. I’ll never allow that. My son is fine. Normal. Nothing like that is happening to him.”

“Aria—please—” I stepped toward her. “If he had it, he could grow up to be another vicious being… like Malik Radwan.”

The slap came fast, the sound cracking in the still night. My cheek stung, but her words hurt worse.

“How dare you compare my son to a terrorist,” she spat. “Nothing is wrong with him. He will be fine. And you—” her voice shook, “—you have no right to act like a father to him now.”

She flagged down a passing cab, yanked the door open, and slid inside with Liam still sleeping in her arms.

Before I could say another word, the door slammed, and the cab drove away into the dark.

For years, the government swore they could predict evil.

They called it Project Clean Seed — an investigation designed to identify embryos carrying the psychopath gene, the same genetic anomaly Malik Radwan was born with. They said it was the only way to prevent another m******e like the one he orchestrated.

It didn’t matter if you were weeks from giving birth or barely pregnant.

If the test marked your child’s DNA with the red stamp, there was no trial, no appeal — only a cold, clinical termination.

I was still a boy when the law passed, and I remember the protests, the riots, the women screaming in hospital corridors. They called it murder. The government called it prevention.

Then Dr. Milton Carroway took office. The man smiled for every camera, promised to "restore the sanctity of life" and “respect the law institution guiding newborns.” His first act as Prime Minister was to abolish Project Clean Seed.

For a decade, babies were born without anyone looking at their genes first. Freedom returned… or so we thought.

Until Malik Radwan — the monster the law was built to prevent — resurfaced with something worse than his own bloodline.

He built something called "Red Serpent".

A slow-acting neurotoxin that rewires the brain, burning empathy away, sharpening aggression, until the victim becomes just like him — a manufactured psychopath.

The signs were clear to anyone who’d studied them: flat, glassy eyes even when laughing. A sudden fascination with pain — animals, insects… people. Cold logic where warmth should be. Sleepwalking and finally a grin at the wrong time.

I’d spent years tracking men like that.

I never thought I’d see those signs in my own home.

But last night at the police station, when my son stared at me and didn’t blink for twelve whole seconds… when his lips twitched into that wrong smile when I asked him why he killed the dog… a cold blade of fear slid into my chest.

Was it the poison?

Or had I — without knowing — fathered something I’d spent my life hunting?

An alarm wailed suddenly, ripping me out of a shallow, feverish sleep. I jerked upright, my head pounding like someone had buried an axe in my skull.

The room was a wreck — empty bottles, scattered clothes, the stench of stale liquor and sweat. My eyes burned. I swung my legs off the bed and stepped straight onto glass — no, a bottle. Last night’s whiskey.

I’d drowned myself in it after returning from the police station. Too many questions. Too much pain I couldn’t bury. Prison had taken enough from me. Now my son was about to take the rest.

The door slammed open.

A tall figure stepped in, his suit crisp, his stare sharper than a blade. It was my department head, Donovan Kade.

“Kael,” his voice was steel, “what the hell are you still doing in bed? You’ve got work to do, not a pillow to hug.”

I rubbed my face, trying to pull the fog from my brain. “I… I’m sorry, sir.”

He didn’t move. “Sorry don’t put food on the table.”

I pushed to my feet, every muscle screaming, and grabbed my jacket. “Understood.”

I headed straight to the corner where the mop and bucket were kept — an old, dented metal bucket they called The Mule because it squeaked like a dying animal whenever you moved it. I grabbed it without a word and made my way to the far side of the hall.

The floor was sticky, smelling of stale beer and something I didn’t want to identify. I dunked the mop in soapy water, squeezed it out, and started scrubbing in slow, steady strokes.

One section done. I pushed the Mule forward, moving to the next spot.

That’s when I saw them — four of the other workers huddled near the back door, smoke curling from their lips, laughter spilling out with the reek of cheap cigarettes.

I ignored them. Work first.

But the moment I dipped my mop back into the bucket, one of them stepped forward, his voice dripping with mockery.

“Hey… how dare you be so rude, huh? Can’t even greet?”

Another one smirked. “Yeah… wasn’t this the guy Darren brought in yesterday? All high and mighty now?”

Then the third one spoke — the kind of bastard who likes twisting the knife.

“Ohhh… wait. I know him. Ain’t you that popular criminal? The one who got out a few days ago? The murderer who killed his own comrades? The ones who were supposed to protect this country?”

A low chuckle passed between them, sharp and cruel.

“Men like you don’t deserve to breathe,” one spat. “Should’ve been put down.”

I kept mopping. Their words rolled off me like rain on stone.

Then I heard footsteps. It was heavy and deliberate.

One of them yanked the mop from my hands and threw it to the ground, water splattering across my boots.

“When we’re talking to you,” he growled, “you damn well learn to respect your elders.”

Another sneered. “Respect? For a criminal? Please. If it wasn’t for your brother Darren, you’d still be rotting in a cell.”

Then he leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper meant to hurt.

“Face it — your whole family’s a mess. Younger brother? A useless murderer. Older brother? Sold himself to a rich family like some cheap whore.”

The words hit harder than they knew. My jaw tightened. My fingers curled into fists.

Before I even thought about it, my fist connected with his jaw — a heavy, bone-cracking punch that sent him sprawling to the floor, coughing and cursing.

I stood over him, my voice low but dangerous.

“Say what you want about me,” I said, “but you don’t ever insult my family.”