Kira Kareem was twelve years old, and the world already said her name in the language of astonishment.
Not in the newspapers yet, that would come later but in the sharp whispers between parents on the bleachers, the quick exchanges in locker-lined hallways, the nods from coaches who didn't hand out respect like candy.
"Watch that kid," they murmured at meets, shielding their mouths as if talent could be stolen by sound. "She's different."
Different meant fast. Scary fast. Like-she-was-born-running fast.
The sun was still soft that April afternoon, dripping gold across the cracked high school track where the middle-schoolers practiced because their own field was a mud pit. The smell of fresh-cut grass tangled with the faint, sweaty tang of ambition.
Kira adjusted the elastic band of her neon spikes and glanced down the lanes. She was a wiry girl with deep brown skin, the kind that caught sunlight and made her look like she was carved from bronze. Her black curls were twisted into a low puff, small silver studs glinting in her ears. At barely 4'11", she was shorter than most of the girls her age, but her frame was all lean muscle and spring-loaded energy. Her wide almond eyes, eyes that seemed to always be hungry for more narrowed as she crouched into position.
Seven other girls shifted nervously, crouching into their starts.
Coach Davis stood at the edge of the track, a broad shouldered man in his late forties with weathered tan skin and a whistle perpetually hanging from his neck. His buzz cut hair was more gray than black now, his voice rough from too many cigarettes and too much coffee. A pistol glinted in his hand.
"All right, ladies," he barked, sharp but not unkind. "Sixty meters. Let's see what you got."
She crouched, toes curling into the worn red surface, heart fluttering like a caged bird. The world telescoped until there was only the lane, the finish line, and the deep, thrilling hunger to win.
The gun cracked.
AND THEN THERE WAS ONLY WIND.
She exploded forward, legs blasting, arms slicing, hair whipping like a black ribbon. The track blurred into a streak of crimson and heat. Behind her, sneakers slapped in frantic rhythm, but they were distant, already drowned by the rush in her ears.
By the time she crossed the line, the others were still clawing through the last stretch.
"Seven-point-nine," Coach Davis muttered, staring at the stopwatch like it had grown wings. "Kid, you're… that's insane."
Kira grinned, sweat glittering on her temples. She didn't know much about times yet, but she knew that number made grown men whistle.
From the bleachers, her mother clapped so hard her rings clicked like castanets.
That was Aaliyah Kareem, thirty eight, her brown skin glowing under the late sunlight. She was tall for a woman nearly 5'9"—with the kind of soft curves that came from years of home cooking and laughter. Her headscarf was bright orange today, knotted perfectly at the base of her neck, and her lipstick matched the color of ripe berries. Her almond-shaped eyes, lighter brown than Kira's, shone with fierce pride.
"That's my baby! Did you see her? Idris! Vaughn! She's a bullet!"
Her father, Idris Kareem, stood beside her—tall and lean at 6'1", with the kind of long stride that hinted at a past full of sports himself. His skin was a warm brown shade a little darker than Aaliyah's, his close-cropped beard flecked with silver despite him only being forty-two. His gray blazer gave him the air of a man who moved between labs and boardrooms with ease, though his smile big, easy, and unshakably warm—belonged to a father, not a scientist. Idris raised a hand in proud salute.
Beside him sat Vaughn Elias—his old college buddy—thin, sharp-featured, and pale-skinned, his complexion almost translucent against the spring light. At 5'11", Vaughn's narrow build made him look taller than he was. His brown hair was combed back too neatly, his wire-framed glasses catching the sun. His smile, though polite, never quite reached his gray eyes. He watched Kira with the stillness of a man memorizing details.
LIFE, BEFORE THE BREAK.
The Kareem house was a warm chaos of spices and laughter, the kind of place where walls held more photographs than bare paint. Tonight smelled like turmeric and roasted chicken, the family's post-practice ritual.
"You were flying today," Idris said, tapping his fork against his glass. "Seven nine at twelve? You're going to smash records before high school."
"Already smashing," Kira teased, cheeks glowing as she shoveled rice onto her plate.
Her mom kissed the top of her head. "Just don't forget your homework, superstar."
"I did it on the bus," Kira lied, then grinned because everyone knew she was lying.
Vaughn sat across from her, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing thin wrists and a silver watch. He smiled that thin smile again. "You ever think about what comes after running, kid?"
She frowned. "Like what?"
"Like science. Machines. Things that make people faster than fast."
Her dad laughed, shaking his head. "Don't fill her head with your techno-dreams, Vaughn. My daughter doesn't need robots." He winked at Kira. "She's built better than any machine."
Kira laughed, because it sounded like a joke then.
After dinner, she sprawled on her bed, texting Jada Lee—her best friend, her loudest cheerleader. Jada was the opposite of Kira in every visible way: caramel-brown skin, nearly 5'3" already, with waist-length box braids that she decorated with bright beads that clicked when she laughed. Jada had a sharp tongue but a heart twice as big as her frame.
Jada: you smoked 'em today. Vanessa looked like she was gonna cry.
Kira: Vanessa's always mad. It's her hobby.
Jada: Party Saturday! I'll drag you if I have to.
Kira: What kinda party?
Jada: Ice cream and music. Chill. But you gotta come.
Kira bit her lip, thinking about it. Parties weren't her thing—running was her thing—but Jada was impossible to say no to.
Jada: Relax is a party of just two , me and you.
From downstairs came the sound of her parents laughing in the kitchen