Richard turned, his expression a mixture of irritation and disbelief. He was used to people shouting his name, begging for help, money, or attention — not yelling about explosions. The pilot waved impatiently, signaling the all-clear. Everything looked fine. But something about the boy’s voice — that raw urgency — made Richard hesitate.

“Sir, it’s just a kid,” one of the guards muttered. But the boy yelled again, louder this time, “The fuel valve’s leaking! It’s dripping — you can see it under the left skid!”

Richard frowned. Against his instincts, he stepped closer to the chopper. And there it was — a dark slick of liquid glistening under the fuselage. The pilot, puzzled, crouched to check. Seconds later, his face went pale. “Sir, the kid’s right,” he said, backing away. “It’s leaking aviation fuel.”

They shut everything down in a rush. The maintenance team sprinted over, and within moments, the smell of raw fuel filled the air. One stray spark from the engine could have turned the entire pad into a fireball.