He walked back to his office, sat down, and re-tied his shoes. Double knot.
Ben looked at the axe, then at the empty air. “I didn’t.”
Ben didn’t wait. He grabbed a fire axe from a broken display, stepped to the tear’s edge, and swung. Not at the rift—at the air around it, splintering the space like ice. The crack made a sound like a hurt animal and sealed with a soft thump . ben battle ready
Silence lifted. Sound flooded back—crying, sirens, a distant dog barking.
Ben had always been the guy who double-knotted his sneakers before a jog. So when the emergency alert blared—“Unidentified aerial phenomenon, downtown, all units respond”—he didn’t panic. He just opened the duffel bag he kept under his desk. He walked back to his office, sat down,
Ben clicked his vest straps. “Stay inside. Lock the doors.” Then he walked out.
Because being battle ready wasn’t about having a plan. It was about showing up when the plan failed. “I didn’t
He pulled out his flashlight—not for light, but for weight. He lobbed it into the tear. The hum stuttered. The crack pulsed once, then shrank. A man nearby gasped, released from the stillness. Others stirred.