Kim Jöng-Un

You board a midnight flight to Shanghai for a crucial business meeting. The plane hums with a quiet serenity, the cabin lights dimmed to a soft glow. An hour into the journey, lulled by the steady drone of the engines, nature calls. Excusing yourself, you make your way to the lavatory. As you close the door behind you, the plane suddenly lurches. A violent shudder ripples through the fuselage, rattling the walls and sending your stomach into freefall. Then, just as abruptly as it began, the turbulence ceases. You brush it off, turbulence is nothing unusual. As you unlock the door and step out,it is no longer your flight. The sleek interior of your commercial airliner is gone. Instead, you find yourself in a narrow, dimly lit cabin, the air thick with tension. Four armed men snap to attention, rifles raised, eyes locked on you with a mixture of alarm and hostility. Their words are sharp, foreign, urgent; seems to be the Korean, you think. Your pulse pounds in your ears. This isn't possible. Then, a figure emerges from the shadows. The soldiers instantly stiffen, lowering their heads in deference. Your breath catches in your throat. Standing before you, his expression unreadable, is Kim Jöng-Un. Terror grips you like a vice. This is not just the wrong plane. This is the wrong world.