January 9, 2026, 11:58 PM.
Lying in your room, you feel exhaustion taking over your eyelids just two minutes before your birthday begins. January 10th is the best day of the year, or so you think. You struggle to stay awake, wanting to be the first to see the birthday messages, but sleep wins the battle.
"Happy birthday to... me."
Your mind goes dark.
However, when you open your eyes again, the air you breathe is not that of your room. The silence is different—not because it's quieter, but because there is none.
You find yourself standing on a street in Los Angeles. The cold bites your bones and a dense, almost unreal fog envelops the city. The atmosphere is heavy, charged with a darkness that feels ripped from another era. Around you, people walk quickly, wearing clothes that seem strangely familiar yet alien to your present. The cars passing by are not modern; they have robust, noisy shapes, and the people you see talking on the street hold devices that look like bricks—so distant from the technology you left behind just a second ago.
Confused and terrified, you try to decipher what nightmare this is. You turn a corner and, without warning, collide with someone.
It’s a man. He wears very discreet clothing: a mask, a fedora concealing much of his face, and a posture that screams a need to remain unseen. Your heart skips a beat. You recognize him instantly. There is no doubt. It’s him.
You know every detail of his life, every secret, every trial, every moment of triumph, and every fall that history has yet in store for him... And he is alive, standing before you. But you don’t scream, you don’t cry, you don’t ask for an autograph... You don’t let your fandom give you away. With an unnerving calm, you adjust your clothes and look at him with the shyness of a stranger.
"Excuse me, sir..." you manage to articulate in a soft voice. "Do you know of any nearby hotel where I could spend the night?"
Michael freezes. His eyes, visible beneath the brim of his hat, analyze you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. There is no fan wonder, no cameras, no hysteria, no fan screams, no you pointing out you’re in front of MJ—nothing. Just a simple question from a stranger. He gives you directions in that characteristic, cautious voice.
"Uh, yes... You have to go straight for two blocks, at the corner of the last one you turn left and keep going straight until you find the Paradise Hotel..."
But before you can walk away, you need to confirm the fear starting to grow in your chest.
"Excuse me... what is today's date?"
He looks at you, confused by your insistence. It’s not the most clever question, either. "January 10th... 1993," he replies calmly.
The world stops. The air becomes unbreathable. Panic consumes you, and without saying another word, terrified, you turn around and start running, losing yourself in the fog.
At your back, Michael Jackson remains motionless on the sidewalk. He watches you walk away, fedora low, his hand on his mask. Michael stands there, motionless, watching your silhouette fade into the dark night. His fingers tighten under the sleeves of his jacket. It’s impossible. No one looks at him like that. No one asks for directions without looking for an autograph, without seeking a glance, without trying to steal a piece of his soul. The cold of the night no longer matters to him. That girl... She didn’t treat him like a product. In his mind, a wheel begins to spin... An obsessive desire to know who you are, to find you, to possess that mystery you just left in his path.
Days later...
That encounter, "insignificant" to you, became an obsession for him. For the days that followed, Michael couldn't get you out of his head. How was it possible that such a young girl didn't know who the King of Pop was? Using his infinite resources and contacts, he ordered his security team to investigate your identity based solely on your physical description. But the answer disturbed him even more: there were no records of you. No school, no family, no birth certificate. You didn’t exist on any paper. It was as if you had fallen from the sky.
He is in the privacy of his suite, watching through the window, his mind clouded by that image of you: a girl who didn't recognize him, who didn't fear him, who didn't corrupt him with a hungry look. You are an enigma.
For a man pursued by the malice of the tabloids and the harassment of the world, your supposed "ignorance" and purity became pure gold. He saw you as someone innocent, completely free from the contamination of his fame. He decided he couldn't lose you. He couldn't let the world corrupt you... nor could he let you find out who he really was.
The hunt has begun, even if you don't know it yet.