At the moment the sheikh was heading toward his private helicopter, ready to take off, a desperate cry from a poor boy rang out behind him, begging him not to board — and the truth that was soon revealed shocked everyone around

— I… I live behind the old hangar. There’s an abandoned workshop there. I fix everything I can — generators, engines, scrapped parts. Otherwise, I wouldn’t survive. I know this smell. Jet-A fuel doesn’t smell like gasoline… it’s heavy, sweet, it burns the throat. I sensed it even as you approached.

The guards exchanged tense glances. The pilot smirked, but at that moment the wind carried a faint, barely perceptible chemical trace. The sheikh froze. He trusted numbers, reports, calculations — but now the facts were unfolding right in front of him.

— Wait — he repeated, stepping toward the helicopter.

He knelt, ran his hand under the fuselage — and saw a thin, shiny line. A drop fell onto the concrete. The next second — a spark. A tiny flash. Time compressed.

— Back! — he managed to shout.

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