The cold wind cut through the streets of Chicago like a knife, the city’s winter chill biting at anything exposed. Michael Jordan, wearing a sleek black coat, stepped out of his car, adjusting his cap to shield his face from the wind. It was supposed to be just another ordinary night. He had planned to make a quick stop before heading back to his penthouse, nothing out of the ordinary. But as he turned the corner near an old alleyway, something caught his eye. His heart froze in his chest. A homeless man sat hunched against a brick wall, his hands trembling from the cold. But it wasn’t the man’s shivering form that caught Michael’s attention—it was the jersey he was wearing.

The iconic number 23, faded and torn, barely visible through the dirt and grime, stood out amidst the grim scene. This wasn’t just any jersey; it was from Michael’s rookie year, a limited edition, and only a handful of people had one. Michael felt an unexpected pull in his chest. Who was this man, and how did he get his hands on such a rare piece of memorabilia? The curiosity gnawed at him as he walked closer to the man, his breath fogging in the freezing air.

As he got nearer, more details about the man became clear—the frailness of his body, the bruises on his knuckles, and the hollow look in his eyes. This wasn’t just another homeless person; there was something different about him. The man seemed lost in his own world, rubbing his hands together and whispering something under his breath. Michael cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Where did you get that jersey?” His voice was calm, but there was an urgency underneath it.

The man flinched, snapping his eyes up in fear. For a moment, it seemed like he might bolt. But then his gaze softened, recognizing the figure standing before him. His eyes widened in disbelief, then a look of shock washed over his face. “Mike?” The voice was raspy, barely more than a whisper.

Michael stiffened. How did this man know his name? His heart skipped a beat, and for the briefest of moments, the world around him seemed to freeze. The man blinked rapidly, almost as though he couldn’t believe his own eyes. Then, with a broken chuckle, he muttered, “I should’ve known I’d run into you someday.”

Michael’s mind raced. He crouched down, his gaze fixed on the man’s face. His childhood friend, Kenny—he hadn’t seen him in years. The boy who used to shoot hoops with him after school, the one who used to talk about making it big just like him. But now, Kenny was unrecognizable. His bright eyes had dulled, his skin was rough, and his body was gaunt, wrapped in ragged clothing. “Kenny, what happened to you, man?” Michael’s voice was barely above a whisper, the words slipping out of him as if the years of their friendship had all come crashing down in that moment.

Kenny offered a weak smile, looking down at the jersey that had once represented a shared dream. He ran his fingers over the faded number 23. “Life happened, Mike,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Some of us get to fly, and some of us… crash.”

Michael clenched his jaw. This wasn’t the Kenny he remembered. “Where are you staying, Kenny?” he asked, his eyes searching for any trace of hope, any indication that his old friend hadn’t completely given up.

Kenny let out a small, bitter laugh, stretching his arms out wide. “You’re looking at it. Home sweet home,” he said, gesturing to the cracked pavement, the filth, and the cold that surrounded them.

Michael’s stomach twisted in agony. He had built an empire in this city, while his best friend was fighting to survive on the streets. But before Michael could say anything more, something strange happened. Kenny’s expression shifted from sorrow to panic. His eyes darted around the alley, and he suddenly tried to stand up too quickly, stumbling and grabbing his head in agony.

“Mike, you need to leave right now,” Kenny’s voice shook with desperation.

“What? Why?” Michael frowned, confused.

Kenny’s breathing became shallow and rapid, his eyes flicking nervously to every corner of the alley. It was as if he was being hunted. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he muttered, “They’re watching me.”

Michael’s blood ran cold. “Who’s watching you?” he demanded, stepping closer.

Kenny swallowed hard, his entire body trembling. He leaned in close, speaking in a voice so soft Michael could barely hear him. “They know I talked to you, Mike. And now… they’ll come for you too.”

Michael felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. This wasn’t just about homelessness. There was something much deeper going on, something that had ensnared Kenny, and now, Michael was tangled in it too.

Michael’s mind raced. Who were “they”? What had Kenny gotten himself involved in? He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the alley. The streetlights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. A stray cat rummaged through a trash can nearby, but otherwise, the alley seemed quiet. Too quiet.

“Kenny, listen to me,” Michael said, his voice calm but insistent. “What are you talking about? Who’s after you?”

Kenny squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his head as if he was trying to block out something. Then, without warning, he grabbed Michael’s wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong for someone so frail. “Mike, you gotta go now. Forget you saw me,” Kenny’s voice cracked, pleading.

Michael yanked his arm free, refusing to leave his old friend behind. “Not happening,” he said firmly. “If someone’s after you, I’m not leaving you out here alone.”

Kenny let out a bitter laugh, his expression filled with hopelessness. “Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do, Mike? Call the cops? You think they care about a guy like me?”

Michael clenched his jaw, hating that Kenny was right. The rich and the powerful had options, but people like Kenny had nothing.

“Kenny, tell me who I need to talk to,” Michael demanded. “What the hell did you get yourself into?”

Kenny’s eyes darted around the alley again, his body tensing as if he were expecting someone to leap from the shadows. “It’s not what I got into, Mike,” he said, his voice barely audible. “It’s what I couldn’t get out of.”

Michael’s pulse quickened. “Kenny, what does that mean?”

Before Kenny could answer, his entire body went rigid. His eyes locked onto something over Michael’s shoulder. Michael didn’t need to turn around to know they weren’t alone anymore. The sound of slow, purposeful footsteps echoed through the alley. A deep voice sliced through the cold air.

“Kenny,” the voice growled. “I told you not to talk to anyone.”

Michael turned, his instincts kicking in. A man stood at the entrance of the alley, his black coat billowing behind him. His hands were casually tucked into his pockets, but there was nothing casual about the way he stared at Kenny. The look in his eyes was cold, calculated, and dangerously familiar.

Kenny’s breathing turned shallow. “I didn’t say anything, I swear,” he stammered, trying to back away.

The man stepped forward, his voice calm, almost amused. “No? Then why does your friend here look so interested?” he asked, glancing at Michael with a cold smile.

Michael didn’t flinch. He’d been around powerful men like this before. He could tell the man wasn’t some random thug—this man carried himself with authority and control. “You got a problem with me talking to my friend?” Michael asked, his tone steady.

The man smiled again, but his eyes remained cold. “Depends. Are you just talking? Or are you trying to save him?”

Michael didn’t respond. He couldn’t, because deep down, he already knew the answer. This wasn’t just a random encounter. Kenny was in deep, and now, so was Michael.

The man’s lips twisted into a smile. “Walk away, Jordan. This isn’t your game.”

For the first time in years, Michael Jordan wasn’t sure if he could win this one.

Then, in a split second, Kenny bolted. He ran down the alley like a man with everything to lose. Michael’s heart raced as he sprinted after him, calling his name. “Kenny, stop!”

But Kenny was faster, darting through the dark streets, weaving between dumpsters and broken crates. He was running for his life.

Michael closed the distance, but before he could reach Kenny, the unthinkable happened. Kenny’s foot caught on a loose piece of pavement. He crashed to the ground, groaning in pain. Michael was there in seconds, kneeling beside him.

“Kenny, damn it, what the hell are you running from?” Michael demanded.

Kenny’s hand shook as he tried to stand, but Michael grabbed his arm, holding him steady.

“You don’t get it, Mike,” Kenny whispered, his voice panicked. “You should’ve left. You should’ve walked away.”

Michael clenched his jaw, not backing down. “Not happening. I’m not leaving you.”

Kenny shook his head, looking over his shoulder like he was expecting someone to jump out of the shadows. “This ain’t about me anymore,” he muttered. “They know you’re involved now.”

Michael’s heart raced. “Kenny, who the hell are ‘they’?”

Kenny hesitated, looking around again, as if the walls had ears. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Mike… I wasn’t always on the streets.”

Michael stayed silent, letting him speak.

“I had a job, a good one. But I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see,” Kenny said, his voice shaking.

Michael’s stomach twisted. “What did you see?”

Kenny’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “They don’t just ruin your life, Mike… they erase it.”

Suddenly, footsteps echoed closer. The sound of the SUV screeching around the corner interrupted their conversation.

Michael barely had time to react before Kenny shoved him, pushing him towards a side street. Kenny, with a desperate look in his eyes, ran straight toward the men in black suits.

Michael’s legs tensed, ready to charge forward. But before he could, the men grabbed Kenny, dragging him into the SUV.

Kenny’s eyes met Michael’s one last time. “Find the name, Mike. Find the name before they find you.”

The SUV sped away, and Michael stood there in the middle of the street, holding the crumpled envelope that Kenny had pressed into his hands. The two words written on the paper might just change everything: David

Sinclair.