The question cut through everything.
Too real.
Too late.
And then—
silence.
Not quiet.
Silence.
Heavy.
Wrong.
The camera slowed—
found him.
A boy.
Still in his seat.
Not reaching for the mask.
Not moving.
Just watching.
“I can.”
The words landed flat.
No fear.
No hesitation.
The attendant froze.
Turned slowly.
Eyes locked on him now.
Shaken.
Uncertain.
“Where did you learn that?”
A pause.
The engine hum grew louder—
pressing into the silence.
The camera pushed closer—
his face half-shadowed.
Unreadable.
“I can’t tell you.”
Something shifted.
Deeper than fear.
The air tightened.
Then—
a sound.
Soft.
Wrong.
The cockpit door.
Creaking open.
Just enough.
The camera snapped to it—
a weak hand slammed against the frame—
slid—
disappeared.
A few passengers gasped.
Barely.
Like they didn’t want to hear themselves.
The camera turned back—
slow—
too slow—
The boy was already looking at the door.
Waiting.
Like he knew.
His voice dropped—
almost nothing.
“…they’re too late.”
Black.
Bass hit.
Part 2 in the comments.
