Daisy, early twenties and restless, stood in the sweltering airport beside her friend Lilly, a fellow environmental science student. The terminal around them pulsed with life: fragments of weary conversations, rumbling luggage wheels, and the steady hum of announcements echoed through the thick, humid air. They were bound for a remote island off India’s coast, selected for an environmental research project. Once teeming with life, the island had become a battered relic, beaten down by climate change’s relentless hand. Rising seas and ferocious storms had transformed it into a fading reminder of what it once was.

  The expedition thrilled them—a rare chance for hands-on climate work. Still, both young women felt a twinge of guilt. As Westerners, they carried the weight of their nations’ inaction at critical moments to prevent climate damage. However, Daisy believed humanity as a whole was accountable. And though the trip had a serious mission, it was partly a holiday too; they’d packed accordingly.

  The island they’d soon study had once been home to an Indigenous community, forced to flee as saltwater swallowed their ancestral lands. The Indian mainland was also suffering from severe droughts, unbearable heatwaves, and forest fires, all of which were compounded by deadly water conflicts. Nature’s wrath was escalating faster than experts could predict, making Daisy and Lilly’s mission feel urgent.

  Their project mixed science and rescue: building experimental flood defences, cataloguing fragile wildlife, and preserving what little biodiversity remained. Unlike most who reacted to climate news with sad emojis and despair, they were actively joining the fight. But as they steeled themselves for the journey, a crackling voice blared over the speakers: all flights were postponed until the following day. Thunderstorms and waterspouts—ocean-born vortices spinning with frightening force—were barrelling through the region.

  After collecting a hotel voucher, they boarded an autonomous shuttle pod that glided silently through the storm-lit streets. Their stopover destination, “Last Renaissance,” looked less grand than its name suggested. Faded paint and flickering neon signs made the hotel look as if it had weathered countless storms. Inside, the room smelled faintly of mildew, and a sputtering air conditioner strained in the corner, exhaling lukewarm air.

  Daisy turned to Lilly with a grin.

  "Alright, we can either spend the evening in here watching TV, listening to the air conditioner sputter, and eating overpriced room service junk… or we can go to a nice restaurant and hit a club. And before you start complaining about student grants, it’s on me—the spoiled rich brat!”

  Lilly laughed, nudging her shoulder. “Well, when you put it that way… alright, rich girl. Tonight’s on you.”

  They slipped into a bustling restaurant, savouring the soft ambience and exotic flavours before diving into the city’s nightlife. Outside a nightclub, a towering robotic bouncer scanned them with cool, unblinking eyes, processing their IDs before waving them through. Behind him, a line of human bouncers stood watch, their steroid-enhanced physiques bulging beneath their suits.

  They stayed until around 1 a.m., heading out as a drunken man argued with a robotic bouncer, his eyes wild and voice slurred.

  “I don’t want to talk to you, you tin can! Washing machine! I want a human doorman!” he shouted, jabbing a finger at the robot’s chest, his frustration raw and oddly personal.

  The robot responded calmly, “May I ask why, sir? I am fully capable of assisting with any inquiries or arranging a cab for you. You appear intoxicated, and your behaviour poses a risk to yourself and others.”

  The man swayed, glaring. “I want a human because you don’t react. I like winding them up, having a good argument.” He poked the robot again, his finger sinking against the cool, unyielding metal.

  Daisy and Lilly watched with mild amusement before slipping away onto the warm, quiet street. The city was as calm as it ever got, with occasional electric cars whirring by. One of the club’s human bouncers stood outside, wishing clubbers goodnight as they left, many staggering home or joining the growing taxi queue.

  “Need a cab, ladies? Wait time’s about fifteen minutes,” he offered in a deep, friendly voice.

  Daisy glanced at Lilly. “Hmm… It’s only a ten-minute walk from here. What do you think?”

  “Not as safe as a cab,” Lilly shrugged, “but it’s pretty safe around here. No, we’re good, Mr. Doorman, thank you.”

  Daisy patted her bag, where her pepper spray was nestled. “We’ll be fine. Pepper spray,” she said with a grin, and together they set off into the sleeping city, the night’s energy fading into a quiet hum.

  They walked down the block and turned right, then left a few minutes later, stepping into an unusually quiet avenue. The street lay shrouded in shadows, poorly lit, each footfall echoing through the silence. Daisy's instincts flared, a primal warning throbbing beneath her skin. Something was wrong.

  A low, pleading voice drifted from further down the street, barely audible but growing louder as they neared a dark alley cluttered with garbage bins and rusted fire escapes. The voice called out again—"Help"—sharp against the stillness. Daisy shot a worried glance at Lilly, her face shadowed with concern. Hesitating, they took a cautious step forward and peered into the narrow, moonlit alley.

  A figure hunched over a man, back arched like a predator over fresh prey. The victim lay sprawled, dressed for a night out, his clothes rumpled, his pockets being rifled through by the hooded figure who moved with brutal efficiency. Lilly raised her phone, dialled emergency services, and shouted, "Stop! We're calling the police!"

  The figure froze, twisted in a crouch, his head turning slowly toward them. Shadows and his hood obscured his face, but the menace in his posture was unmistakable. He rose deliberately, stashed the stolen goods, and tossed the man's phone aside with a dismissive clatter. The silence thickened as he took a step toward them, posture predatory.

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  "Run!" Daisy shouted, her voice tight with fear. "Split up! Head for the hotel—I'll go back to the club!" She saw terror flash across Lilly’s face before her friend bolted. Daisy hesitated just long enough to confirm Lilly had some distance.

  Lilly was a Darwinian child—genetically natural. She couldn't run like Daisy, who’d had elite athletic DNA spliced into her helix before birth. It wasn’t uncommon: Olympic athletes sometimes sold their genetic prowess to wealthy families.

  Daisy reached into her bag, fingers curling around her pepper spray. But then she changed tactics. She raised her hand instead, letting the gleam of her rings—a scattering of real gold and diamonds—catch the man’s eye in the moonlight.

  "They're real," she taunted, her voice steady and defiant. "Worth a fortune."

  She flashed her rings one last time before turning and running, shoes kicked off, bare feet slapping the pavement. She knew she could likely outrun the mugger, even if he was young and athletic. She wanted to make sure he came after her, not Lilly.

  The hooded figure's shadow stretched and darkened as he pursued her relentlessly.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him gaining. His eyes were cold, emotionless. In the patchy light of streetlamps and moon, she caught a glimpse of his face—dark-skinned, handsome, chiselled. He looked like someone from a magazine cover, not a back-alley predator.

  Her heart pounded, lungs burned. She'd taken a wrong turn. Ahead lay a dead end—closed shops, dark windows, no signs of life but dim apartment lights above. Would her cries penetrate the double-glazed windows and the drone of evening TV? She doubted it.

  Still, she screamed. "Help me!" Her voice cracked with panic, raw and desperate.

  With nowhere left to run, she spun to face him. He slowed, approaching with a measured calm, hand outstretched for her throat. Instinct took over. She grabbed his wrist, shifted her weight, and executed a judo throw she'd practised for years. A perfect uchi mata—enough to slam any normal man onto hard tarmac.

  But the sound was wrong. Not the soft thud of flesh—just a metallic clang that echoed sharply.

  Daisy froze, her pulse thundering in her ears. He began to rise, slowly and smoothly, like something rebooting.

  Her hands fumbled through her bag, trembling, until they closed around the pepper spray. She pulled it free and stepped toward the mugger, unleashing the mist into his face.

  The cloud hung in the air, clinging to him. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Instead, the droplets caught the light, revealing something beneath the shadows—two faint, unnatural glows radiating from his eyes.

  The empty can clattered to the pavement.

  He wasn’t human.

  The truth hit her like a truck. The metallic clang. The eyes. He was a robot. And she was no match.

  Across the city, on the top floor of Dockside Warehouse 26, the world narrowed to the glow of computer screens. Dust motes floated lazily in a single shaft of light. Twenty-six-year-old Mikal sat hunched at a makeshift desk, fingers white-knuckled on a joystick, a lopsided mic slipping from his headset.

  He looked like a gamer mid-match. But this wasn’t a game.

  Mikal's fingers twitched on the joystick. He’d been called weak once. Never again.

  Behind him stood Seb, one of his father’s muscle-bound enforcers. Scarred knuckles, sharp eyes—a man shaped by violence. Seb chuckled, gravel-voiced.

  "Gotta hand it to her," he said, leaning over Mikal’s shoulder. "Girl’s got guts. But don’t rough her up. Let her hand it over."

  The screen flickered with static, but Daisy remained visible. She stood in a dim alley, back against graffiti-stained bricks. Mikal’s robot avatar had already risen after her throw. He watched her chest rise and fall, her eyes darting. No way out.

  Mikal’s voice crackled through the mic, cold, venomous. "Alright, bitch. Hand it over."

  "Please," Daisy begged. "Take what you want. Just don’t hurt me."

  Her hands shook as she passed over her bag. The robot moved with precision, unzipping its hoodie and stashing the handbag inside its metal torso, hidden by cloth. Next, she unclipped her necklace and offered it.

  Mikal leaned closer, grinning. "The rings," he spat. "The ones you flashed earlier."

  Tears glinted in Daisy’s eyes. She removed two rings slowly. The third was stuck.

  "It’s stuck," she whispered.

  "Let me help," Mikal said sweetly. The robot gripped her wrist. Its metal fingers yanked. A sickening snap echoed as the ring came free, along with the sound of bone breaking.

  Daisy’s scream tore through the speakers, raw and gut-wrenching. It echoed through the warehouse.

  Seb recoiled, face twisting. "Mikal, that’s enough!" he barked. "She’s a woman. Have some honour. Your dad said minimal violence—no cruelty. If he hears about this, you’ll be the one explaining."

  He loomed, casting a long shadow over the desk.

  But Mikal ignored him, savouring Daisy’s tears as she cradled her broken hand. Through her pain, she heard arguing voices through the robot’s speaker. Another operator? A conscience, maybe. But she didn’t have time to figure it out.

  Sirens screamed in the distance, drawing closer. Apartment windows opened above. Shouts rang down. People were watching.

  The robot's movements turned twitchy. It scanned for an escape. Mikal's fingers flew across the controls.

  "Cops are coming," Seb said tightly. "You better move."

  Mikal didn’t answer. He leaned into the mic, his voice a hiss. "Don’t tell them I’m a robot. I recorded your face. I’ll find you if you do."

  He yanked the joystick. The robot bolted.

  It darted into a pool of light, then grabbed a drainpipe. In seconds, it scaled six stories, joints humming. It vaulted the rooftop ledge, disappearing above the CCTV grid. With inhuman agility, it leapt from rooftop to rooftop, a shadow melting into the city. Daisy’s sobs below were swallowed by sirens.