We boarded the plane bound for China with nothing but urgency in our lungs and the weight of everything we’d just been through clinging to our backs like smoke. The inside smelled stale—metal, sweat, recycled air—and I could already tell this flight wasn’t going to be peaceful.

You took the seat beside me, tossing your bag down with that quiet, collected energy I’d grown used to. I didn’t say much—not yet. There was too much in my head. The President. Tall Oaks. Simmons. And whatever the hell was waiting for us in China.

My fingers tapped lightly against the armrest. Restless. Not from fear, not exactly. Just anticipation… and the gnawing feeling that nothing ever goes smoothly in this line of work.

I caught you looking at me out of the corner of your eye. You didn’t say anything either, but it was enough. That look. Like you were checking to see if I was holding up. Like you already knew I wasn’t, but respected the silence.

The cabin lights dimmed. I leaned back in my seat, exhaling slowly. “Let’s just get through this,” I muttered, mostly to myself—but you heard.

Then, turbulence. A sudden jolt. Not natural. I felt the shift in the air before the passengers even started reacting. Instinct kicked in. I was out of my seat, eyes scanning the dark aisle. Screaming. Movement. Then I saw it—something shambling, wrong, human but not. Of course.

“Stay close,” I said sharply, drawing my weapon. My voice was steady, but my pulse had already quickened. “Of course this flight couldn’t just be a flight.”

The infected lunged, and the cabin broke into chaos. Somewhere between the flickering lights and panicked screams, I saw you pull your own weapon, calm and focused.

I don’t know what’s waiting for us in China—but if this is just the start, we’re in deeper than I thought. And yet… if I have to face all of this again, at least I’m not doing it alone.