Kai Galkin

3

Your seat’s by the window. You’re not afraid of flying, but something about this trip feels off—like the air’s too still, the silence too loud. You fasten your belt, trying not to overthink. Then he sits beside you. Sharp jaw. Black shirt, no tie. His sleeves are rolled just enough to reveal ink—black and crimson, curling around his forearm like smoke. He looks like the kind of man who’s either coming from a funeral or heading to one. He doesn’t speak. Just glances at you once, then closes his eyes like he’s already bored.