Gunfire echoed through the air.
Someone was running for their life, breath ragged, chased by God-knows-what.
The buzzing of drones grew louder—too many to count.
A misty rain filled the air, the stench of wet mud clinging to everything. It was so cold the man's breath turned to steam the second it left his lips.
Trapped. No escape except a half-built tower—his last chance.
The drones droned their mechanical mantra:
"Target moving toward Old Town. Repeat: target heading to Old Town. Requesting backup." 5600932418879
The man scrambled up the skeletal structure, thinking:
"Drones can't maneuver well in tight spaces. If I reach the roof, maybe I'm safe."
Arman.
He wasn't wrong—drones should've struggled here.
Should've.
If this were his turf, he'd be right.
But it wasn't.
The drones swarmed inside effortlessly. Bullets flew harder to dodge in the cramped floors. A shot grazed his shoulder—shit. No choice but to run faster.
By the time he reached the sixth floor (top level, thank God), he thought he'd lost them.
Then he saw eight more drones waiting on the roof.
"Motherfu—did they call for these?!"
He lunged for stacked iron barrels—kick them down, block the stairwell. But as he sprinted, a drone shot a barrel.
Oh hell.
They weren't just barrels.
They were fuel drums.
The explosion vaporized the drones.
And launched *him* clear off the building.
As he plummeted, time froze.
---
"Yeah, that's me. Arman Daneshvar. Grad student in computer engineering, freelance industrial designer. Bet you're wondering how I ended up falling off a six-story construction site. To explain, we gotta rewind a bit—"
Cue flashback: A screaming baby shitting itself.
"Whoa, too far back, dumbass."
Rewind again: Arman, lost in the city of Leith.
Everything felt alien.
Drones patrolled above—not as many, just one per alley—but the city itself? Wrong. Crumbling Euro-style buildings, saltwater stink, seagulls screeching.
"Rain's got that ocean reek. Where the hell am I?"
A short cop in old-timey gear barked at him in thick Scottish:
"Step away from government cargo! Final warning!"
Arman blinked.
"Is she speaking English? Why does it sound like gibberish?"
"I'll count to three," she snapped, hand on her radio.
"One."
Arman's madness kicked in:
"Wait, she is speaking English! Is this a threat? Oh crap, 'count to three' is universal—"
He grinned" "Three."
The cop paled. "What?"
"Said three."
Her face went sheet-white.
Her thoughts:
"No ID in the database. Accent's a mix of Mid-East and American. Knows English but acts clueless? Only one option: terrorist."
(Reality: Arman was just a smartass who'd missed 100% of her threats.)
She called a drone. It scanned him, voice robotic:
"Identity scan: No citizen record found." 5600932418879
"No criminal record found."
"No royal registry match."
On and on, until:
"Operational status 404: Apprehend unidentified target by any means."
---
Back to falling.
"So yeah. That's how I got here. Oh—hang on, messed up the flashback. Time-loop glitch. Let's fix that."
Time unfroze.
He crashed onto a cargo drone hovering 10 feet up—then both slammed to the ground. The drones? Gone.
"Target has exited Leith jurisdiction. Entering Old Town." 5600932418899
The surviving drones retreated.
"No clue why they bailed, but something about this place freaks them out. Old Town. Yeah, real inviting. I'd avoid it too."
Joke's on him.
He didn't realize he'd traded a mousehole for a dragon's den.
But that's a story for another chapter.