Rise Of Michael Jordan

Chapter 13

Seraphina’s voice lingered cold and sharp in my ear. I clenched the phone tighter.

“Seraphina,” I muttered, my voice was low, “keep me updated about the status. I want every detail—no matter how small.”

There was a pause for a while then she reply, her reply was steady and calm. “No problem, Kael. You’ll have my updates as they come. And… Kael—” her tone softened, “I’m sorry about your son. Truly.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing words out. “...Thank you.” Then I ended the call just before I could show the crack in my voice.

Aria’s voice cut in behind me, trembling but sharp. “Who was that?”

I turned to her slowly. “It was Seraphina.”

Her eyes widened. She stood up so quickly her chair scraped against the café floor. “Kael.” My name left her lips like an accusation.

“Listen to me,” I said, raising my hands, trying to steady her spiraling emotion. “Let me explain how everything is happening—”

But she cut me off, her voice slicing through mine. “Why, Kael?! Why are you still in contact with them? Don’t you remember? Those people nearly cost you your life!”

I breathed hard through my nose, holding her gaze. “I didn’t contact them. They were the ones who reached out to me first.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion, disbelief flickering across her face.

“There are… things,” I continued, softer now, “many things going on that I can’t disclose to you yet. But I promise you, Aria… when all of this settles, I will tell you everything.”

She shook, still angry, still afraid. I knew why—she had every right. After all, those people’s mission had destroyed our family, torn apart everything we once were. Because of them, I’d lost my home, my town, my prestige. And here I was, tied to them again. If I were her… I would hate me too. But I couldn’t stop now. Too many truths were buried. Too many ghosts demanded answers.

I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her trembling body close. “Trust me, Aria. I’ll explain when the time is right.” She didn’t reply, only cried quietly into my chest.

We returned to the hospital. Liam lay in his bed, pale and still, his little frame hidden beneath wires and tubes. He looked so calm it terrified me. Too calm. We weren’t even allowed close. So we stood at a distance, watching our boy as though he might vanish if we dared breathe too loud.

Then I heard it—my name. “Kael.”

I turned. Darren was there, my brother, walking toward me with his wife at his side. Relief and pain crossed his face as he pulled me into a rough embrace.

“I heard,” Darren said, his voice thick. “I came as soon as I could. Kael… Liam will be alright. He has to be.”

I nodded, voice low. “I believe so.”

We sat later in the hospital restaurant. Neither of us touched the coffee before us. Darren tapped his fingers against the table, his jaw tight before he finally spoke.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Kael… maybe it’s time you relocated. At least for now. I can talk to my in-laws—they have subsidiaries abroad. You can work there. Lie low, just until this storm passes.”

I shook my head immediately. “I can’t. There are too many businesses, too many threads I need to hold together here. If I run, I only confirm the rumors. Everyone already believes I killed my comrades—that prison was proof enough for them. But the truth is here, Darren. Malik Radwan is here. If I find him, I clear my name.”

Darren leaned forward, eyes fierce. “And for how long are you going to risk your life? Your family’s life? Do you remember the sniper attack, Kael? The very day you were released? And now Liam—God, Kael, do you know who will be next?!”

His words pierced me, sharp and raw.

“You need to let go,” he pressed. “Think of your family first. That’s all that matters.”

I opened my mouth to reply—then the hospital intercom blared to life.

Attention, medical staff to Room 406! Code Blue. Repeat, Code Blue, Room 406!”

My blood turned to ice. Room 406. Liam’s room.

“Liam!” I roared, bolting to my feet.

I ran, Darren’s footsteps pounding after me. The hallway blurred, every breath jagged in my chest.

When I reached the room, Aria’s scream nearly split me in two. She was clutching the edge of the bed, tears streaming, crying Liam’s name over and over. Doctors swarmed, shouting orders, their movements fast and frantic.

“Charge to 200!”

A defibrillator whined, then slammed into Liam’s chest. His small body jerked violently, his head rolling to the side.

“No!” Aria screamed, fighting against the nurse holding her back.

“Again! Clear!”

Another shock. His body arched, then collapsed back into stillness.

I pressed my fist to my mouth, tasting blood where I’d bitten my lip. My knees wanted to give, but I couldn’t—wouldn’t. Not while my boy was fighting for breath, for life

The sharp, rhythmic beep of the machine pierced through the thick silence of the room. For a second, my chest stopped moving, my breath caught in my throat. Then one of the nurses gasped softly before calling out, her voice was trembling.

“Doctor, his vitals are stabilizing!”

Relief crashed into me like a wave. My eyes darted to Aria, and I caught the way her body gave out as she collapsed onto her knees, her hands trembling, tears streaming freely down her pale face. The sound of her sobbing clawed into me, raw and desperate, as if the very weight of the world had just been lifted and then dropped again.

I didn’t think. I rushed to her, scooping her. She clung to me instantly, her arms wrapping around me with such force that it felt as though she was trying to anchor herself to reality through me.

“Aria… hey,” I whispered, my hand stroking her back, my own voice thick though I forced steadiness into it. “It’s fine now. Do you hear me? Everything is fine. Our son is strong—he’s going to be okay.”

Her sobs only grew harder, muffled against my chest, but she nodded weakly.

The door pushed open then, and the doctor stepped out, his expression solemn, exhaustion written on his face. I held Aria tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his tone grave. “After the success of the surgery, your son suffered a seizure. It’s not unusual in cases as complex as his. But… fortunately, we managed to intervene in time. He’s stable now.”

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. My arms tightened around Aria when she stiffened against me. The doctor continued, bowing slightly, “You should rest your minds. He is safe. Please trust us to monitor him closely.” With that, he excused himself.

Aria’s sobs returned, softer but endless. I shifted, holding her upright, guiding her into the room where Liam now lay sleeping peacefully, his small body dwarfed by the hospital bed, his chest rising and falling faintly. The sight twisted something deep inside me.

I pulled her closer. “Look at him, Aria. He’s fighting. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry, alright?”

Her wet lashes lifted, meeting my gaze with silent fragility. She nodded faintly, trusting me—believing me because she had no choice but to.

Just then, the shrill vibration of my phone cut through the silence. I slipped it from my pocket and pressed it to my ear.

“Kael,” Seraphina Voss’s voice came through, “I don’t know how you’ll take this, but I had to dig into who was behind the attack at the restaurant. The one that… led to your son’s condition.”

My jaw clenched. “And?”

“It was Hawthorne,” she said bluntly, her words like ice water running through my veins. “Right now, Mr. Hawthorne is at Club Obsidian.”

A muscle ticked in my cheek. My voice dropped, cold, certain. “No problem. I’ll head there now.”

“Good,” she replied, and then the line went dead.

I lowered the phone, my silence speaking louder than anything. Aria lifted her tear-stained face generate .

“That bastard… was it him? The one who hurt our child?” she asked, her voice trembling but laced with a quiet rage.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The silence was confirmation enough.

Her hands balled into fists, her fragile body shaking. “Kael… make him pay. For trying this with our son—make him pay.”

Her words struck me harder than any blade ever could. I paused, staring into her eyes for a long moment before nodding once. My voice was low, almost a promise to the air itself.

“No problem.”

I turned toward the door, my resolve burning like fire in my chest. But before I could step out, her voice stopped me again.

“Kael…”

I froze, half-turned.

Her eyes glistened, her voice soft but sharp enough to cut through me. “Be careful out there.”

I only nodded once, silently, and walked out.

Not long I reached the club, the bass hit me the moment I pushed past the velvet curtain — heavy, vulgar, and pounding so hard it rattled my ribs. The club reeked of sweat and liquor. There were Strobe lights carved through the smoke, painting the dance floor in fractured flashes of red and violet. Bodies moved like shadows in heat, grinding, colliding, forgetting themselves. Laughter bled into curses, the sound of glass breaking somewhere in the back, and the DJ’s voice screamed into the microphone like a dying animal.

I’d been in clubs before. I knew what they were — temples of excess, hiding places for broken people. But tonight, I wasn’t here for the noise or the liquor.

I was here for one man.

Hawthorne.

Milton’s right hand.

And if Milton had ordered the attack, then Hawthorne was my direct line to him.

I moved through the crowd, shoulders brushing against bodies that smelled of cheap perfume and alcohol. My pulse was steady, my eyes scanning. Somewhere above the chaos, the government’s lies pressed against the back of my skull. They thought they could bury my team in silence, erase us from history like we were nothing but disposable ghosts. They thought the world wouldn’t care — or worse, would turn against us if they knew what really happened.

But the world wasn’t my concern anymore.

Milton was.

And Hawthorne was my way to him.

A hand brushed my arm, soft, lingering. I turned — quick, sharp — and found a woman standing too close. She was dressed like the others who haunted places like this: short skirt, painted lips, and a smile that wasn’t a smile at all, but bait.

“Looking lonely, handsome,” she purred, dragging her manicured nails along my sleeve like a promise. “Why don’t you buy me a drink? I’ll make it worth—”

My hand snapped out, iron around her wrist. The glare I gave her could’ve dug her grave right there on the sticky club floor.

“Get. Off.” My voice was low, guttural. Deadly.

Her painted face twisted, and she hissed, yanking her hand back like I’d burned her. “Psycho.” She spat the word before vanishing into the crowd, heels clicking like daggers.

I didn’t waste another thought on her. My eyes tracked upward — movement. A group of men in tailored suits slipping toward a staircase at the far end of the club, heading for the rooftop’s private rooms. Special rooms. That’s where Hawthorne would be.

I pushed past the last row of dancers, ignoring the curses thrown at me, and slipped out into the cool night air. The rooftop was quieter, but not safer.

As I neared the heavy steel door at the top of the stairs, I felt it — the shift. That sixth sense, that whisper in my bones.

The gunshot would’ve split my skull open if I hadn’t turned at the exact moment. My hand clamped over the attacker’s wrist, twisting the weapon away before the trigger could pull fully. His eyes widened, panic flashing — too late. My elbow crushed his nose, my knee drove into his gut, and I slammed his skull against the concrete with a crack that silenced him forever.

His body dropped, lifeless, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Blood spread beneath his head like a dark halo.

Screams erupted behind me. Clubgoers had followed up, wide-eyed, horrified. But their fear was gasoline, feeding the fire I carried inside.

The door burst open. More men spilled out — black suits, earpieces, eyes cold. Milton’s men.

Good.

They came at me in a wave. The first swung a blade — I caught his arm, twisted it until I heard the snap, then buried his own knife into his thigh. He screamed, collapsing. Another came from behind, fist flying — I ducked, drove my palm into his chest so hard I felt his ribs fold.

Three, four, five of them. All trained. All lethal. But I was more.

I moved like shadow and steel. Fists breaking jaws. Boots crushing knees. One man drew a gun — I slammed his arm against the railing, made him drop it, then drove his face into the metal until it caved. Another lunged with a roar; I caught him mid-charge and hurled him over the side of the rooftop. His scream cut short as the ground devoured him.

It was a storm. A minute of bone and blood and silence. When it was done, the rooftop was littered with broken bodies, groaning, twitching, or not moving at all. My breathing was heavy, but steady.

I shoved open the door and stepped inside.

The private room was soaked in cigar smoke. A long table stretched across the space which contains the bottles of expensive whiskey.

And there he was.

Hawthorne.

He sat at the head of the table like a king, his suit immaculate, his smirk deliberate. A gun lay casually on the chair beside him, within reach — but untouched.

“Well, well.” His voice was silk and poison. “The ghost himself decides to pay me a visit. I was beginning to wonder if you’d crawl out of the ashes.”

I stepped forward, my jaw clenched, my eyes never leaving his.

“Why?” My voice cut through the smoke like a blade. “Why did you do it?”