Midnight in Glasgow, and the rain was lashing as per. Detective Sergeant Mark Callen nursed a cup of takeaway coffee in the squad car, parked outside the 24-hour burger joint on the edge of Kelvingrove Park. The dash clock blinked 00:13. Another unrewarding night that felt like it would never end.

  His partner, DS Fiona McAllister, fiddled with her phone in the passenger seat, shivering under three layers of hi-vis. “Mark, as much as I love freezing my arse off with you outside these twenty-four-hour burger holes—and you know how much I adore the ‘high-quality’ coffee from here—I think we'd best call it. She’s thirteen. She’s probably just out with a friend or some wee boyfriend trying to be clever.”

  Mark shook his head, staring into the blackness beyond the windscreen. “You know I can’t just leave it, Fi. If that was Ava, I wouldn’t be sleeping either.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes, trying to sound casual. “Aye, well, don’t you have her sports day tomorrow? Pretty sure you missed the last three.”

  Mark grimaced. “Shit, is it Friday already? Christ, my luck…”

  He raised the coffee to his lips—then stopped. The cup trembled in his hand. Ripples spread across the surface, gentle at first, then sharp enough to rattle the lid. Fiona noticed it too, her eyes going wide.

  A hush, heavier than sirens, settled over the city.

  Both Mark and Fiona stepped out of the car, the sudden silence pressing against their ears. They looked up, squinting through the foggy Glasgow glow, just as a ripple of golden light flickered in the sky above. For a moment, it looked like a meteor—until Mark realised it was something small, haloed in gold and falling fast.

  Fiona’s voice broke the spell. “Sarge, what the hell is that?”

  Mark’s mouth went dry. “Call it in,” he managed.

  They scrambled back into the car—but the light was already streaking down, faster, brighter, straight for the burger joint. Fiona yanked the radio as they dove for cover, her voice unsteady: “Control, this is Sierra-One-Three. We have… something coming down. Request immediate backup!”

  The impact hit like a bomb. An ear-cracking wave split the night, the ground bucking under their feet. Mark slammed into the car door. Fiona slammed into the bonnet as the shockwave ripped through. Every window in the parking lot exploded outward in a storm of glass—car windscreens, the restaurant front, even the streetlights shattering in a perfect circle of destruction. Shards rained down like deadly snow, the air thick with a pressure that the world had yet to accept fully.

  People panicked, rushing out of the burger joint—staff, late-night stragglers, screaming and clutching at fresh cuts. Fiona was already up, radio to her mouth: “Backup, now! Impact at the joint—multiple casualties!”

  Mark staggered to his feet, baton out, torch beam cutting through the haze. “Stay back!” he shouted to the crowd, pushing toward the shattered storefront. Fiona fell in beside him, cuffs ready, both of them stepping over glittering debris.

  Inside was a war zone. Tables bolted to the floor were now twisted wrecks embedded in the walls. Chairs lay scattered like broken bones. The counter was split clean in half, as if something had punched straight through it. Mark’s torch swept the wreckage, heart hammering.

  Then he saw him.

  A man sat hunched against the back wall, wearing a nearly destroyed long black duster, eating a burger with mechanical calm amid the chaos. Plaster dusted his shoulders; a tear tracked through the grime on his cheek. He didn’t look up, just kept chewing like the world hadn’t ended.

  “Police! Let me see your hands—now!” Mark screamed, baton raised.

  Fiona moved to flank him, cuffs out. “On the ground, mate! Let’s see those hands!” Her voice cracked—just a hair—eyes flicking to the crumpled fryer, remembering her niece's school trip to the museum last week, how fragile it all felt.

  The man finished his bite, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and finally looked up. His eyes were sharp, ancient—wrong in a face that wasn’t much older than Mark’s own. For a heartbeat, Mark thought he saw another tear slip free, but the man just yawned, impossibly casual.

  “Can you two just fuck off?” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. “You’re ruining this for me right now.”

  Fiona lunged half a step, cuffs shining. “I said hands! You deaf fuckface?”

  The man sighed, set the burger down on a miraculously intact napkin, and stood—slow, deliberate. His duster seemed almost as out of place as the man himself, patched with faded stitching that caught the flickering dim light of the kitchen: In pace aedificamus, in revolutione stamus. He slipped his hands into his pockets, turning towards them like they weren’t even there, and slowly began walking toward the shattered doors.

  Mark lunged, grabbing his arm. “Oi! Not so fast—”

  The man didn’t break stride. Mark’s baton flew from his grip, clattering across the floor. Fiona’s cuffs vanished from her hand. Before either could blink, the man was behind them, already stepping out into the car park, hands still buried in his pockets.

  “What the—” Mark spun, drawing his sidearm. Fiona fumbled for hers.

  The man paused under the flickering streetlight, rain hissing off his duster. He tilted his head back, staring up at the bruised Glasgow sky, and raised one hand—casual, like hailing a cab.

  Brilliant gold erupted from his palm, a radiant beam tearing upward through the clouds. Mark and Fiona staggered back, shielding their eyes. The light wasn’t just bright—it was alive, humming with impossible warmth, punching straight through the night like a god’s finger tracing a line across the stars.

  For a heartbeat, the beam stood alone. Then—impossibly—six more answered from across the city, golden pillars rising in perfect symmetry, converging above Glasgow in a cosmic crown. The heavens themselves seemed to shudder, the air thick with ozone and thunder that hadn’t struck yet.

  The beams held for three eternal seconds—seven pillars of light linking earth to infinity—before winking out as one. Golden orbs spiralled lazily around the man, four swords materialising at his hips, hanging from the duster as if they’d always been there.

  He lowered his hand, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired grin, as if he’d just finished a shift at the pub.

  “Sorry about your windows,” he called over his shoulder, voice carrying easily through the rain. “I’ve got a guy who fixes those. Name’s Caelan, by the way. Captain of the Revolutionary Army. You’re gonna want to sit down for this one.”

  Mark’s grip tightened on his sidearm, the world tilting under him. Fiona’s voice came faint over the radio: “Backup’s… two minutes out. What the hell is that?”

  Caelan turned, meeting Mark’s stare with eyes that had seen too much. Rain slicked his face, but that grin didn’t fade.

  “The story of how I stood on top of the biggest war this reality has ever seen. Yet...”