The streets of downtown Chicago were unusually quiet that night. The cold air bit at Michael Jordan’s skin as he adjusted the collar of his coat, pulling it tighter against the chill. The familiar hum of city life felt distant in the late hours, and the streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. A faint breeze carried scraps of old newspapers down the street, and in the distance, the low sound of a saxophone player echoed from a corner near State Street.
Michael preferred walking alone at night. No entourage, no bodyguards, just him and the silence. It was one of the few times he could blend into the world like a normal person, escaping the ever-present eyes of the public. Tonight, however, something felt off. As he turned down a quieter block near an old bookstore, he noticed a figure slumped on a bench near an alley. The man was wrapped in layers of coats and blankets, his wool cap pulled down low over his silver-streaked hair. He looked like just another face lost to the city’s cold rhythms, nothing more.
But then, as Michael walked past, the man spoke. “Michael.”
The voice was calm, direct, and unmistakable. It stopped Michael mid-step. He hadn’t introduced himself, hadn’t even spoken a word, yet this stranger knew exactly who he was. Michael turned slowly, still uncertain about what was happening. The man’s eyes, sharp and clear beneath the grime, met his. There was no desperation, no wildness—just a calm intensity that made Michael pause.
“Michael Jordan,” the man repeated, his voice as steady as before. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Do I know you?” Michael asked, taking a cautious step back.
The man smiled faintly, and for a moment, he looked almost… younger. The streetlight illuminated his face just enough to reveal something unsettling—a familiarity Michael couldn’t place.
“I know you,” the man said again, his voice low and sure. “Better than you think.”
Michael felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He’d dealt with people approaching him before, asking for money, seeking autographs, or pleading for help. But this was different. There was something in the man’s eyes—something that felt too real. The man shifted under his blankets, pulling out a small, metallic object. It shimmered under the streetlight, pulsing like it was alive.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” the man said, holding out the object. “But I’m not from this time. I came back for one reason—you.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “You came back for me?” His tone was skeptical, but curiosity pulled at him.
The man nodded. “There’s something you’re going to do. Something that changes everything—not just basketball, everything. And if you don’t hear what I have to say, it all goes wrong.”
Michael took a slow breath. He’d seen a lot in his life—championships, final shots, fans crying at his feet—but this? This was new, and it was making his mind race. Still, deep down, he couldn’t ignore a part of him that wanted to believe in moments that couldn’t be explained.
The man continued, lowering his voice, “I know about the 63-point game in Boston. The shoes. The flu game—that wasn’t the flu. I know what your father told you the night before he disappeared. I know about the dream.”
Michael froze. The dream. A recurring vision he’d had since childhood—a memory he had never shared with anyone. His heart skipped. How did this man know?
“How do you know that?” Michael asked, his voice quiet but tense.
The man leaned forward, his face more illuminated now. His expression was peaceful, almost serene. “Because I’ve seen what comes next.”
Michael blinked, a cold rush of disbelief washing over him. “What are you talking about?”
The man looked Michael directly in the eyes. “You’re not just an athlete. You’re a keystone. A turning point before the world changes. And it’s not over yet.”
Michael took a small step back, the night air suddenly feeling colder. He wanted to laugh, to dismiss the stranger’s words as madness. But something in his gut told him that there was more to this than just a crazy plea for attention.
The man opened his palm to reveal the glowing device again, its pulse steady and rhythmic. “There’s more than one path, Mike. And one of them leads to a world you wouldn’t recognize. But you can still change it.”
The wind picked up, howling through the alley behind them. Michael’s thoughts were spinning. The city around him felt distant, as though it had faded into the background, leaving just him and this strange encounter. The man’s gaze was locked on him, unwavering.
“Ask me what comes next,” the man said, his voice quiet but insistent.
Michael’s heartbeat ticked a little faster. He didn’t flinch, though—he’d trained himself not to show emotion, whether on the court or in life. But this was different. This wasn’t a game; this was something bigger.
“Ask me what comes next,” the man repeated.
Michael hesitated. The words seemed to hover in the air between them, daring him to ask, to open a door he wasn’t sure he wanted to walk through. “What comes next?” he finally said, his voice steady but filled with uncertainty.
The man’s eyes glinted, but it wasn’t triumph Michael saw—it was sorrow. “You disappear,” he said softly. “Not just from the game. From everything. And the world doesn’t recover.”
Michael’s mind raced. He had always been in control of his destiny, but now, standing in this dimly lit alley with a stranger claiming to know things about him no one else could, he felt unmoored, uncertain.
“Disappear?” Michael asked, folding his arms. “You’re saying I’m supposed to save the world?”
The man’s eyes darkened. “I’m saying your decisions echo further than you know. There’s a moment coming soon. You’ll be offered something, something that seems harmless, easy. But if you take it, history unravels.”
“Offered by who?” Michael asked, the confusion deepening.
The man’s face tightened. “I can’t tell you. If I do, the timeline shifts. You have to trust yourself when it happens.”
Michael swallowed hard, looking down at the sidewalk beneath his feet. The man’s words were heavy, like a warning. Yet, something inside him—something deep and primal—was starting to wake up. This was no ordinary conversation.
“You still haven’t told me who you are,” Michael said, his voice steady.
The man hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a tattered photograph. He handed it to Michael, his hand shaking slightly. Michael stared at it. It was an old, faded picture of himself—no older than 10—standing in his backyard, holding a worn-out basketball. Beside him, with one hand resting on his shoulder, was the man.
“That was the first time I met you,” the man said quietly.
Michael’s breath caught in his throat. His hand trembled slightly as he stared at the photo. “What is this?” he whispered.
The man smiled softly. “You didn’t remember it. You weren’t supposed to.”
Michael stood frozen, the weight of the photo in his hand like a key unlocking something buried deep within him. “Why now?” he asked.
The man sighed, his expression softening. “Because time is collapsing. I wasn’t supposed to come back this far, but the fracture came earlier than expected. I had one window to warn you. This is it.”
Michael stood still, holding the photo, as the wind swirled around him. The man’s words hung in the air like an unanswered question.
“If I ignore this… if I walk away?” Michael asked, his voice tight.
The man’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes were filled with centuries of knowledge. “Then everything ends.”
The wind howled again, and when Michael looked up, the man was gone—vanished into the shadows, leaving Michael alone with the photograph still in his hand.
He stared at the faded photo, the boy in the picture smiling back at him. But now, there was something else—something new in the background. A glint of light, a shape, a machine that didn’t belong.
Michael’s heart raced as he tucked the photo into his jacket, the weight of it pulling him into a new reality. He didn’t have all the answers. But something inside him knew that whatever came next would change everything.
