It was a foggy mid-July morning in London. The city was just waking up, the streets dead silent. Suddenly, a flash of bright orange light illuminated the sky. A fireball of heat spread across the city. The smell of smoke arose into the misty air. Big Ben had been hit.

“Ughh, what’s going on?” I said from my bed. It was six-o’clock in the morning, usually a time when the streets below my penthouse on Bishop Avenue are silent, but not today. Even through my soundproof windows, I heard the intimidating sound of sirens. A chill ran up my spine. As part of my job, I was used to hearing sirens, but not what sounded like hundreds at a time. I quickly got out of bed, and jumped into my glass elevator that led to the ground floor of the building. From the lobby, I walked over to the building’s huge double doors and gave them a push. Smoky air filled my lungs as I stepped onto the sidewalk. In front of me, my neighbors stood in the streets like statues, watching the burning clock tower. In fact, it appeared as though all of London was watching. Cars, trains, busses, and taxis all stopped in awe. I stared up at Big Ben, one of London’s most historic icons. The gold copper on the outside was melting away from the heat of the blazing fire, and the big clock hand looked like it would fall off any second. I was so distracted that I didn’t notice the group of police officers that came marching down the street.

“Everyone, get indoors! It’s not safe outside!” They yelled.

“What happened?” I asked.

“That’s none of your business!” barked the police officer.

“Oh, I think it’s my business.” I demanded pulling out a shiny gold badge. “Agent Martin, Aston Martin.”