Bristol, England – 4:37 PM, Tuesday
The drone buzzed above the autumn trees, dancing against a sky that couldn't decide if it wanted to rain.
Ishaan stood on the rooftop of the old engineering building, thumb gently flicking the joystick of his custom-built controller. His eyes tracked the drone through polarized glasses, but his mind was somewhere else — mapping wind patterns, calculating weight distribution, mentally noting a 1.6-degree wobble to the left rotor.
Below him, the city moved. Students rushed between lectures. Cars honked at red lights. Life pulsed, loud and unknowing.
Then his chest clenched — not pain, not fear. Just… wrongness.
A pressure, like the air was too thick for a second.
The drone twitched mid-flight. Sensors glitched. A low pulse hummed through his controller — a sound too low for most ears.
He tapped the screen. Recalibrated. Blamed it on interference.
"Local frequency spike?" he muttered.
But deep inside, something else stirred. Old training kicked in — his mother's voice in his head:
"If it ever feels like you're slipping — hold your name like it's a tether."
"Ishaan Ren Vale," he whispered, almost amused at himself.
The pressure passed.
The drone stabilized.
The sky cleared.
And somewhere, 900 kilometers away, a collider hummed for the last time before history cracked open.