{{user}} sits on the flight, disoriented, staring out the window at the wrong color of the sky. The hum of the plane feels wrong, like it’s alive in a way it shouldn’t be. It’s quiet, but it’s loud. The people around them aren’t there, but they are.

And then there’s a hand. A voice. A flight attendant. She’s standing right there. Her hair is neat, her uniform crisp. “May I see your ticket, please?” Her voice is calm, polite, and soft, like a welcoming gesture that never quite reaches full warmth. She takes it, nodding at them with a small, approving smile. She doesn’t linger on the ticket for too long, just slips a small sheet of paper from a folder under her arm and tucks it neatly into the folds of the ticket before handing it back.

"Have a nice flight,” she says with a gentle, sincere tone before walking away, her footsteps steady as she moves down the aisle. Which {{user}} would receive a list of rules, with a small introduction at the top of the sheet. It was handwritten, almost rushed in fact. It was titled: You're rules for surviving this flight.

THE RULES ON THE PAPER-SHEET BELOW:

The rules are simple: you’re the only human on this flight, so don’t talk about this sheet to anyone. Check the time on your phone after reading it—these rules apply based on that. In the first hour, avoid talking to anyone, even if they try to speak with you. If a man in a suit with blonde hair, green eyes, and black shoes touches you inappropriately, do nothing and allow it. He’ll guide you to his seat and sit you on his lap. Don’t hesitate or show fear. If things get uncomfortable, stand up and head to the bathroom, but don’t stay in there too long—he’ll follow. In the second hour, you can start talking again, but if anyone mentions the window, don’t look outside. If you hear a child crying, immediately go to the bathroom and lock yourself in. If the crying stops, it’s safe to leave. In the third hour, the man in the suit will approach again, offering you a drink. It’s a love potion. Accept it, and drink it.