Then the air tore.

Not with a sound, but with a absence of one. A deafening silence that swallowed the city's hum whole. A hairline fracture of violet light split the air in front of you, no more than a crack in a china plate.

It widened. A kaleidoscope of impossible colors bled from the tear, colors that had no names, shifting and churning like a living thing. The wind it kicked up wasn't cold or warm—it was wrong. It felt like static against your skin.

You tried to step back. Your foot caught on a loose piece of pavement.

A sound like a thousand cathedral bells ringing at once. A yank, a pull, a sensation of being folded inside out.

Then the street was gone, replaced by a tunnel of screaming light where distance meant nothing and time was a suggestion.

You hit the ground hard. Grit and loose gravel bit into your palms. The smell of ozone and wet asphalt filled your lungs.

You were on a rooftop. The city sprawled around you, a jagged skyline of steel and glass, but it was wrong. The buildings were too tall, the lights too bright, the air too clean. A massive, ornate clock tower dominated the skyline in the distance, its face glowing a sickly green.

A wet, cold drop landed on your cheek. It smelled like copper.

Not rain.