The sun cracked through the broken window of the dorm, landing across a thin mattress stuffed with ragged blankets and a pair of size-13 sneakers that didn't fit anyone in the room.
Except her.
She sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, spinning a half-torn basketball in her hand like it was glass. She wasn't supposed to have one—orphans didn't get gear. But she'd stolen it off a trash pile near the street courts a year ago.
And never let go.
She was twelve. Pale skin, messy black hair, lean and tall for her age. Most called her weird. Some called her defective. But no one dared say it to her face after the first few fights.
She didn't have a name, not really. The orphanage tag read "Mika", so that's what the system called her.
But she remembered another name. One no one here would understand.
> Michael Jordan.
---
"You talk funny," a kid muttered from the bunk across the room.
Mika's head turned slowly, the ball still spinning.
"Funny how?" she said, voice low, casual, and thick with a tone no twelve-year-old in this world had ever used.
Like she was born in the South Side of Chicago instead of this sky-damned wasteland called Veron Court Orphanage.
The kid backed off.
That happened a lot.
---
Outside, the street courts were already alive.
Men and women who never awakened still fought tooth and nail in games that looked more like warfare than sport. Concrete cracked under heel drives. Steel rims bent with every dunk. Even the lowest of the low played with power that would've broken bones back on Earth.
But this wasn't Earth.
And she knew it the second she dribbled for the first time and her hand moved faster than her eyes could track.
Her body wasn't normal.
She was faster than she ever was as MJ. Sharper. More explosive. Her arms were thin, but her core was solid—like someone carved a champion into a child's frame and told her, "Now, go."
She was twelve years old… and already 70% of what she once was at her peak.
Except for one thing.
> Her voice. Her rhythm. Her soul.
That? Untouched.
---
Mika stepped onto the court near the lower district. People were already watching. She didn't smile. Didn't posture.
She just walked into the game like she owned the ground.
"Hey, girlie," said a teen twice her size. "You lost or what?"
Mika bounced the ball once. Sharp. Echoing. Solid palm control.
"Nah," she said, rolling her shoulder. "Just came to give y'all a reason to cry."
Someone laughed.
That same someone stopped laughing when Mika snatched the ball mid-pass two plays later without even looking.
> Pressure. She could feel it. Faint. Cracked. But there.
She couldn't explain it, but every time someone moved—drove, passed, shifted their heel—she felt it. Like a pulse in the air.
Court Instinct.
It hadn't fully awakened yet, but the spark was already there.
---
They played hard. Real hard.
Street players weren't trained, but their bodies had grown in a world ruled by gods. They had raw strength, real speed, and pure hunger.
But Mika?
Mika was control.
She weaved between legs, floated past shoulders, vanished under arms, and reappeared at the rim—then slammed it in with a vertical that made the crowd go silent.
She was twelve.
She dunked on a grown man.
And didn't say a word.
---
A small notification blinked across her vision, unseen to the others:
> [SYSTEM UNLOCKED: Final Zone Directive]
Welcome back, Michael.
Basketball Points will now be tracked.
Initial Rhythm Path: Unchosen
Bloodline Compatibility: 47% — Error. Mixed blood detected. Status: Forbidden.
Current Power Rating: Street Tier Apex
Mika exhaled. A slow grin pulled across her lips.
> "Let's get started."