The motorcycle engine purred beneath him like a held breath.
Adrian rode slowly through the city, weaving between empty intersections and too-clean roads. The golden light spilled over every surface flat, full, endless but it brought no warmth. Just exposure. Just a sense of being watched.
The buildings around him gleamed unnaturally. Their windows didn't reflect anything. The roads cast no shadows, not even from the thick concrete signs that arched overhead. It felt like driving through a painting. Beautiful, polished, and dead.
He eased off the throttle at a red light that hadn't changed in half an hour. Not that there was traffic. The streets were still. Silent, save for the soft hum of his engine.
The sun hadn't moved.
It was the same unnatural glow as when he'd left the hospital. Still shining. Still stuck.
He looked around. Pedestrians were out, but quiet. Some walked with bags clutched to their sides, others pushed strollers or carried umbrellas open even without rain. All of them moved with the same reluctant pace. Cautious. As if they sensed the lie but couldn't bear to say it out loud.
No one looked up.
No one looked at him.
And no one dared mention the light.
Adrian downshifted and turned onto a wider road, gliding past a large plaza lined with government-approved stores. One of the shopfronts flickered with blue light. Dozens of flat-screens were mounted behind the glass, all tuned to the same channel.
He coasted to a stop and idled near the curb.
"The sun's unusual position is a result of minor atmospheric instability. Please return home and await updates from your regional officials."
The anchorwoman's voice was calm. Practiced. Her eyes smiled with the same hollow rhythm as her mouth. She didn't mention the clocks. Didn't mention the Law. Just ambient excuses. Just enough to keep panic sedated.
He revved the engine once soft, controlled then rolled forward again.
A few streets later, he passed a government van idling near a transit station. Its back doors were open, crates lined up neatly inside. A pair of workers in light armor stood nearby, their faces passive behind shaded visors. They didn't stop him. Didn't speak.
Another screen came into view.
This one was mounted on a tall pole outside a closed café.
The feed had changed.
Not the woman this time. Not the same voice.
Now it was a man.
President Malrick Siven.
There was no intro. No anthem. Just his face, steady and unchanged from every broadcast in the past fifty years.
His uniform was dark, immaculately pressed, with silver trim that caught the light too perfectly. No rank insignia. No flag. Just him. His face was smooth, ageless, confident. Not youthful — preserved. Preserved like something embalmed.
He spoke.
"This is a minor temporal distortion. There is no need for alarm. Realizer forces are observing the situation closely. We are in full control."
Adrian rolled the bike to a stop again.
Watched.
The streetlight above him buzzed softly, casting no shadow. No outline of his figure appeared on the pavement.
He stared at the screen without blinking.
His lips pressed together. His jaw tensed.
Then he exhaled once, sharply.
"Bullshit," he muttered. "If you can control it, why let it happen at all?"
He turned the throttle and pulled away.
The shop was tucked between a closed pharmacy and a laundry kiosk with flickering signage. A small rectangular plaque above the door read:
AUTHORIZED FIREARMS DISPENSARY – DISTRICT 7B Licensed under Central Authority Defense Ordinance #0027.
" I need something to protect myself even if it insignificant"
Adrian parked the motorcycle neatly at the curb, cut the engine, and let the silence return. He removed his helmet, set it on the seat, and stepped inside.
The bell above the door didn't ring. There was no bell.
Inside, everything was muted.
Gray walls. Sterile lights. Glass counters. The faint, unmistakable smell of gun oil and brushed steel lingered in the air. The temperature was cooler than outside not by much, but enough that Adrian felt it immediately. It wasn't relief. It was just real.
Behind the main counter stood a young man in a pressed, pale-blue uniform. His posture was professional. Back straight. Eyes alert but not hostile.
He didn't smile.
"Identification?" the man asked automatically.
Adrian handed him a government-issued ID from his coat pocket. The card gleamed slightly under the overhead light.
The clerk scanned it. The console gave a soft beep of approval.
"Doctor Vale," he read aloud. "Psychiatrist. Benevolent Healing. Clearance tier three. You're authorized for personal protection, single firearm, with standard carry license."
Adrian gave a single nod. "That's right."
The man didn't ask why a psychiatrist needed a gun. He just pressed a few keys on the screen and turned behind the counter.
"Preferred type?"
"Compact," Adrian said. "Reliable."
The clerk reached into the lower case and retrieved a matte black 9mm handgun. Clean. Sleek. Civilian-grade, but not weak. Just enough power to end a threat, if used correctly.
Adrian took it in his hands and tested the weight.
It felt good. Balanced. Not perfect, but enough.
The clerk glanced back at the terminal. "Standard protocol allows for ten magazines. Would you like the full allotment?"
Adrian looked up without hesitation. "Yes. All ten."
The man nodded and placed them neatly on the counter one by one. Then he added two boxes of hollow-point rounds without being asked.
The transaction was nearly complete when the screen on the wall flickered again.
Adrian's eyes shifted to it immediately.
The president had returned.
Same suit. Same voice. Same silver eyes that never quite blinked.
"The situation remains under control. There is no danger to civilians. This distortion is being studied by our highest Realizer authorities. Please remain calm and continue your day."
It wasn't live. Adrian could tell. The transitions were too smooth. No sweat. No paper shuffle. No reaction to any present event. Just a loop a prewritten spell meant to sedate the city.
He stared at the face on the screen.
Then thought quietly, "He looks like he's already buried."
Adrian holstered it inside his jacket without ceremony.
"Will that be all?" the clerk asked.
"For now."
He placed the magazines and ammo into a small carrying case, locked it with a biometric seal, and accepted the receipt without reading it.
As he turned to leave, the clerk added one final line.
"If anything happens out there... keep your ID visible. District checkpoints won't question it."
Adrian paused by the door, glanced back over his shoulder.
"That's assuming they're still following protocol."
The clerk didn't answer.
Outside, the sunlight was still wrong.
He stepped into it again, blinked against the glare, and walked back to his motorcycle.
As he mounted, his hand hovered for just a second above the ignition. Something gnawed at the edge of his awareness.
The gun was real. The ammo was real. The license was real.
But the ground felt fake. The sky felt fake.
The world wasn't unraveling it was flattening. Polished. Hollowed out.
He tightened his grip on the handlebar.
Turned the key.
And rode off into the golden city, carrying ten magazines and a question that couldn't be silenced anymore:
Who is the President trying to fool the people, or himself?
The motorcycle's engine faded beneath Adrian's stillness.
He was no longer watching the road. He wasn't even watching the plaza where a small group of pedestrians had gathered.
He was watching the sky.
And so was everyone else.
Above him — above the city, above the clouds, above everything the upper half of a man's body had appeared. Projected into the firmament itself, dwarfing the tallest buildings, was the unmistakable figure of Malrick Siven, President of Eltherion.
Not a video.
Not a screen.
A living projection.
Colossal. Silent. Unblinking.
From the waist up, he hovered across the sky arms calm at his sides, shoulders squared in his sharp black uniform, the silver trim around his collar glinting faintly against the static sunlight. His skin looked untouched by age, but not young preserved, almost polished. His silver-gray eyes scanned the curvature of the world as if this were his birthright. His expression remained neutral, emotionless. The smile he wore was faint, functional, and empty.
And then the world heard his voice.
Not through technology.
Not through speakers or satellites.
The sky itself spoke with his mouth.
"Citizens of Eltherion. Remain calm."
The voice was omnipresent. It echoed across mountains, over oceans, through deserts and concrete.
It was heard everywhere.
People in every corner of the globe looked up from whatever they were doing eyes locked onto the heavens.
Traders on morning markets. Miners in underground rigs. Pilots mid-flight. Fishermen at sea. Children in bed.
Every clock still read 11:00 PM.
But everyone was awake.
And no one was moving.
"The anomaly in the sun's position is a localized temporal aberration. It poses no threat. You are safe. There is no cause for alarm."
The voice carried no urgency. No warmth. Only certainty.
Adrian slowly removed his helmet and placed it on the tank in front of him. He didn't look away.
The scale was incomprehensible. Malrick's image was not bound to one sky it had been mapped to all of them. The curvature of the world bent to contain it. From every continent, every country, he could be seen.
Projected at a height where every mortal face tilted upward. Every conversation stopped. Every screen dimmed.
Everyone looked.
Even those who didn't believe in him. Even those who had rebelled. Even those who had never heard his name until now.
Because when the sky speaks, you listen.
"We understand your concern," Malrick said. "And so, for your clarity and your peace a demonstration will now be given."
Adrian's jaw tensed.
This wasn't for comfort.
This was performance.
The figure in the sky raised one massive hand no rush, no exaggeration. A simple lift of fingers large enough to crush cities beneath their illusion.
And then he snapped.
A soft, crisp sound.
But the response was instant.
The light died.
The sky went black.
For the first time in days, true night returned.
Not fading dusk. Not technological trickery. Real darkness. Cold. Quiet. Weighty.
Across the world, cities blinked into backup lighting. Lampposts activated. Streetlights buzzed. Highways shimmered in artificial glow. Apartment towers flickered like stars.
Adrian looked down.
His shadow had returned. Long and crooked beneath the motorcycle.
People gasped all around him. Someone fell to their knees. A child cried in the distance. A bird struck a window disoriented.
Three seconds.
Then the sun returned.
All at once.
Golden. Clean. False.
The shadow beneath Adrian vanished like it had never existed. The warmth returned. The world reset.
Above, Malrick Siven remained exactly where he was, motionless in the clouds.
"That will be all," he said.
And with that, the projection dispersed.
No flare. No transition. No digital decay.
Just gone.
The sky was whole again.
But no one moved.
Not for a long while.
The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was stunned. Cornered.
A quiet born from instinct. Fear disguised as understanding.
Adrian slowly reached for the handlebars and leaned forward.
He let out a slow breath.
"Huh," he muttered. "What a powerful demonstration."
He didn't ride immediately.
He sat with it.
That wasn't reassurance, he thought. That was control. That was a warning written in shadow.
The president had snapped his fingers and turned off the world.
And then turned it back on.
Only to prove he could.
Three seconds of night had been enough.
Enough to silence doubt.
Enough to shut every mouth across every city, nation, and wilderness.
Enough to remind them all that the sun was not theirs.
That day and night did not belong to mortals.
That he Malrick Siven had the leash.
Adrian's mind reeled.
If the government could bring night back for a moment, that meant the Law of Darkness can still be salvage.
and after that it will be Owned by the government.
And if they owned one…
They likely owned others.
He thought of the rumors. Of Realizers vanishing after rare awakenings. Of Scriptures disappearing. Of warlords suddenly submitting without explanation.
The conclusion was now obvious.
The government wasn't protecting law.
They were stockpiling it.
Adrian reached for the ignition, eyes narrowed against the false light.
Malrick Siven had ruled for 150 years.
No elections. No war. No resistance.
Because there had never been need for it.
You don't fight a god.
He rode away slowly.
And the sun, high and eternal, watched without blinking.