The next bolt is bigger, fat as a skyscraper elevator shaft, and it doesn't vanish.
It stays, sizzling crimson, then starts to spin. The other two bolts orbit around it like drunken satellites, threads of fire weaving a rope the size of a city block. Wind slams the hill. My grav bike (gravity defying motorcycle) skids three meters before the plates grip. People on the overlook scatter: tourists clutch selfie sticks, a couple in wedding clothes, my skate kid friend dragging his board by one wheel. A patio umbrella rockets past, cartwheeling over a row of motorbikes with a metallic whap whap whap (lol). Someone's lunchbox flies after it, chicken dumplings launching into low orbit. "Under the bridge!" I shout at the kid. He blinks, then bolts. I gun the throttle and follow, visor flashing red warnings my manual never mentioned:
MAGNETIC SURGE • THRUST LIMIT 40 % The bike lurches downhill, tail sway wild. I can't brake; wind would knock us over. At the canal bridge the kid dives into the maintenance hatch. I jump off, shove the bike sideways, and wedge both of us in the narrow cavity just as a loud noise occurs... BOOM KA CRACK! Glass across District Seven gives up its earthly ambitions. Windows burst like popcorn. Shards rattle down in sparkling curtains, but halfway they… stall. Five, six, seven stories of glitter hang frozen mid air, twinkling in the bloody light. Parked cars lift a fingerbreadth, bumpers groaning. My own bike floats, wheels spin, then tilt sideways like a lazy ballerina. For three heartbeats the city forgets how gravity works. Then the laws of physics sign back in. Everything drops at once. The sound is impossible, a single crash stretched across every block. Car alarms join the chorus. My bike lands nose first, sparks. Coffee cups and dumplings rain onto the bridge rail. The kid stares out, freckles ghost pale. "D did we die?" "Not yet," I say, pulse hammering like a faulty piston.
Humans are weird. Thirty seconds after near death, shoppers crawl from doorways and whip out holo phones (holographic phones). Center screen zooms on the sky where that cyclone of lightning now punches upward, a glowing drill into low clouds. Those clouds aren't clouds anymore; they're a whirlpool of burning ink. Stream tags flicker on my visor: #RedSpiral, #EndOfShiftGoals, #CraterCam. Someone's already selling merch: I SURVIVED THE SKY GOING INSANE hoodies. Comedy born before the dust even settles. I pull the bike upright; antigrav plates flicker but hold. Kettle kitchen smell wafts from cracked batteries. Good. Not exploding yet. Overhead, a heavy freight blimp listing left sputters emergency thrusters. Its captain dumps cargo pods that splash into the river like fat pebbles. The crowd cheers every impact, half terrified, half thrilled. The skate kid films with trembling hands. "This'll break seven million views, right?" he asks. "If we live to post it," I mutter. My guard tattoo tingles, hot needle on bone, like it wants to leap free and shield the whole skyline. Power I don't dare show.
A low rumble rolls up from the crater, deep drum, subwoofer from the planet core. The pavement under my boots ripples, each slab popping like keys on a giant piano. I flatten against the bridge wall, arms over my head. The kid dives under my jacket. The hill across the canal slides five centimeters left; retaining walls crack, dust plumes upward. River water sloshes over banks, swirling with neon lily petals. My bike drifts again, engines whining. Bridges downriver flex like rubber; two snap, dumping glass roof tour ferries into foaming water. Emergency drones zoom, projecting bright green arrows: EVAC NORTH. I scan: north's jammed with stalled hover cars. South leads directly toward the crater, the last place I should pedal, but the only open route. Figures. Another tremor hits, shorter, sharper. Streetlamps pop; shards clatter across the bridge. Somewhere a transformer blows, showering sparks. The cyclone narrows. Lightning coils into itself, tightening into a single column. With a flash, the red light inverts, implodes, sucked into an invisible drain. The sky goes black. And then I see it.
A point of searing white births at crater center, as though the world obtains a new North Star. It rises, slow, deliberate, growing into a pillar, then a tower. Plates of molten stone rotate around the core, click into place like giant jigsaw teeth. Each plate cools to deep crimson crystal streaked with glowing runes. The structure stretches higher, cracking clouds. Maybe 800 meters. Maybe more. Hard to judge when my knees wobble. The spire stops only when its crown pierces sunlight returning through the rent atmosphere. Runic veins flash top to base, once, twice. The light settles into a steady pulse: ba dum, ba dum. A heartbeat the whole city can feel. The world holds its breath. Even car alarms choose silence. A street vendor whispers, "Temple? Prison? Weapon?" Nobody answers. A tiny part of me, a courier brain wired to schedules, notes the time: 07:22. History's official birth minute.
The silence shatters under emergency sirens city wide. Tall rotary beacons switch from blue to blood red. Loudspeakers boom multilingual orders: "EVACUATE OPEN GROUND…
SEEK STRUCTURAL SHELTER…
THIS IS NOT A DRILL…" Holo alerts stack on my visor glass until vision blurs. Every channel screams breaking news. The city's emergency mascot, a dumb smiling armadillo, pops up, telling citizens to stay calm while seismic teams mobilize. People react three ways:
Pray. Kneel, clasp beads, chant to any god in range. Run. Northbound stampede. Hover bikes weave, children cry. Livestream. Arms raised, grins shaky, "Like and subscribe before the apocalypse eats us!" I'd love to call option four, hide in bed, but beds are scarce on bridges. The kid tugs my sleeve. "Rowan, what now?" Good question. The tower's runic pulse vibrates through my ribs, tugging at that seatbelt tattoo. Every thump feels like an invitation with my name on it. But I also have rent, a goldfish, and an alarm clock parrot expecting dinner. Sirens overlap, louder now. Across the river, sky track trains grind to a halt; mag coils die, carriages freeze midair, then descend to emergency pylons. Impressive fail safe. I swing my leg over the bike. "We head north with the others. No hero stunts." Part of me lies; another part flickers with dangerous curiosity. "Can I ride?" the kid asks. "No helmet," I answer. He pulls a cracked skateboard helmet from his backpack, dented and sticker bombed. I sigh, pat the seat pad. He hops on, clutching my jacket.
We ease into the evacuation flow. Drones overhead chant directions. Each pulse of tower light fades but never dies, as if the spire just inhaled the world and holds it in. At the first intersection my visor overrides navigation. A full screen push notification blocks view:
⚠ GLOBAL EMERGENCY BROADCAST ⚠
Anomaly classification: CRIMSON TOWER.
Citizens are urged to clear a two kilometre zone.
Further instructions to follow. Crowd screens flash the same alert. Newscasters stammer words like unprecedented and planetary event. I throttle north. Kid clings, phone filming over my shoulder. I see the live counter bounce past 80 000 viewers. Chat lines roll: "Bro you're the biker from Hill Cam!""Tell us if it's aliens!""Ride closer, coward!" I snort. Internet never changes. A final glance south: the tower stands serene, runes beating with slow certainty, as if it grew roots into the earth and claimed it. Someone just changed the skyline, and maybe every life beneath it. My fish is going to miss a feeding schedule. I twist the throttle anyway, joining the river of evacuees, crimson pulse still thumping in my bones, and wonder if this is the day my little guard sigil wakes up for good.