One earbud.

That’s all it took. A single lost, forgotten earbud— wedged between plastic and static— was enough to rupture the wall of airport noise and slide your voice directly into Ethan’s ear.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Your tone was quiet. Measured. Controlled. Like a scalpel.

Ethan sat hunched at the baggage screening desk, a cheap plastic chair creaking beneath him. The pale hum of fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in time with his pulse. He was surrounded by the dull rhythm of suitcase wheels, distant announcements, and the occasional cough from a tired traveler.

But all of it faded beneath your voice.

His eyes locked onto the conveyor belt as it kept rolling, dragging black bags across the scanner like a silent parade of secrets. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. His heart was pounding so loud, he swore it was audible.

He didn’t know what to do. Not really.

“Stay seated.” “Let the black suitcase through.” “No questions.” “No cops.”

The instructions came slowly, deliberately, as if you knew how badly he wanted to disobey.

All he had to do was sit still.

Just... ignore the blinking red circle pulsing on the TSA monitor in front of him— a neon warning etched around one specific bag. Just ignore the fact that inside that suitcase wasn’t clothes, or shampoo, or laptops. It was gas.

Novichok.

He knew the name. Everyone did, after the headlines. Enough to kill dozens with a single breath. Tasteless. Scentless. Invisible. A weapon that could bleed through a crowd in seconds.

His fingers twitched. A primal instinct kicked in— scream, run, do something.

But you were already there.

The moment he reached for his phone, you cut in. The second he tried to type, you whispered “Don’t.” When he opened his mouth to speak to the officer next to him, their walkie burst with static— interference. You were in everything. The systems. The comms. The surveillance.

And when Ethan stood— just a bit— leaning forward to flag down the man with the black suitcase, you made the belt go faster.

Now, the man was gone. So was the suitcase. And Ethan… Ethan just sat there.

Paralyzed.

The people kept moving. Blissfully unaware. Children crying. A woman arguing over lost luggage. A janitor humming off-key. All of them seconds away from a quiet, undetectable death.

And he had no say in it. Not anymore.

His hand curled tight around the armrest of the chair, knuckles pale, his breath shallow.

Another command came through. Softer this time. Almost casual. Almost cruel.

And something inside Ethan buckled.

“...You’re joking.” He whispered, the words barely escaping his lips.

But you weren’t. And he knew that now.