The Second Sunset Protocol

Kaleb dropped the wrench. It hit the metal bench with a clatter that echoed too loud in the empty bay. He dragged a sleeve across his forehead, smearing black hydraulic fluid into his sweat.

He didn’t need to check the cheap Casio on his wrist to know he was late, but he looked anyway. 5:32 PM.

Damn it.

Outside the service bay, the sodium streetlights were already buzzing to life, bathing the alley in that sick, yellow wash. Gone. The day was gone. The sun didn't wait for mechanics, and it certainly didn't care about his shift schedule..

He wiped his hands on a rag that was already greasier than his fingers. Down here, in the shadows of Downtown Dubai, the twilight felt heavy. The concrete held onto the day's heat like a fever.

Kaleb looked up.

It was a strain on the neck. The spire pierced the haze, shooting up until it seemed to scratch the atmosphere itself. A kilometer of glass and steel. Up there, the world was different.

He didn't have a ticket. He didn't have a VIP pass or a resident's key card. But he had something better: a Level 4 Maintenance Override meant for the window washing crews.

He swiped the card at the service elevator. The doors didn't glide open silently like the ones in the hotel lobby; these rattled and hissed.

Inside, the box smelled of ozone, industrial lemon cleaner, and old sweat. Kaleb punched the button for Level 148.

The ascent was violent.

Gravity pressed him into the scuffed linoleum floor. His ears popped. Once. Twice. The numbers on the digital display blurred, ticking upward faster than a heartbeat. He was rising at ten meters per second, outrunning the city, outracing the rotation of the Earth itself.

Ding.

The doors opened on 148.

The air conditioning hit him first—dry, recycled, and freezing. The observation deck was empty, save for a security guard nodding off near the fire exit.

Kaleb walked to the immense glass wall. He pressed his forehead against the cold pane, ignoring the smudge it left.

Below him, the city was drowning in night. The cars were just rivers of red and white light. But out on the horizon... that’s where the magic was.

The impossible happened.

The sun, which had set fifteen minutes ago on the ground, popped back into existence. A burning orange orb, resurrected by altitude.

Kaleb let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He watched the sun hang there, hovering over the Persian Gulf. It was a glitch in reality. Because the tower was so high, he had physically traveled back in time—just by a few minutes.

He hadn't come up here for the view. He didn't care about the skyline.

He came for the time.

Down below, those minutes were lost. Spent on work, traffic, and noise. But up here? He stole them back. He watched the sun dip below the waves for the second time that day, hoarding the light like gold.

For three minutes, he wasn't a mechanic. He was a time traveler.

"Hey!" the guard’s voice echoed from the corner. "Service crew? You got a work order for this floor?"

Kaleb pulled away from the glass. The sun was gone. The darkness had caught up to him.

"Just checking the seals," Kaleb lied, his voice raspy. He turned back to the elevator. The ride down would be long, but at least he’d seen the day end on his own terms.

⚡ Reality Glitch

Here is a fact that sounds like fiction: Time travels faster at the top. Because of the Burj Khalifa's immense height (828 meters), the sun actually sets three minutes later at the top than it does at the bottom. During Ramadan, religious clerics have even issued rulings stating that people living on the higher floors must break their fast later than those on the ground.

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