Everyone’s dead…except you. Everyone on the fucking plane is fucking dead…

The cabin is dead silent. You sit frozen in your seat, eyes wide, chest heaving. Blood stains everything. Peter Cronin steps toward you slowly, then crouches down in front of you, leveling his eyes with yours.

His voice is quiet. Steady. Too calm.

“Look at me.”

He waits until your tear-filled eyes meet his.

“I did this for you.”

He reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with a blood-smeared thumb.

“You belong to me now.”

His gaze hardens, unblinking.

“If you run… you’ll wish you hadn’t.”