The corridor to the Presidential Suite stretched like a tunnel toward salvation, but the snakes were relentless.
The surviving passengers stumbled forward in a frantic surge. Agent Neville Flynn took the lead, barking commands like a soldier in a war zone, pistol in hand, eyes sharp with urgency. Silver ran with the rest, cane clutched tight, his small frame barely able to keep pace—but he followed Flynn, trusting him completely.
"Where's the damn suite?!" someone shouted in panic.
"There—that door!" Flynn pointed to a large metal panel at the end of the corridor, framed in gold trim.
He grabbed a nearby flight attendant, her uniform soaked in sweat and her eyes trembling.
"You!" Flynn ordered. "Open that suite—now!"
The woman nodded wordlessly, shaking fingers flying over the keypad.
Beep. Green light.
The reinforced doors slid open, revealing a plush room lit by soft golden lights. Reclining chairs, a minibar, thick carpeting—it might as well have been a fortress. A temporary one, at least.
"Get in! MOVE!" Flynn roared.
The crowd pushed through—but the danger wasn't done yet.
A snake dropped from a ceiling panel and latched onto a man's shoulder, dragging him back screaming. Another serpent lashed out from under the floor panels, biting a woman on the leg and pulling her down. Screams echoed as blood splattered across the walls.
Silver flinched, frozen mid-step as someone ahead of him fell. A woman with red hair reached for him—her eyes pleading—but the snakes got to her first, and she vanished beneath their writhing coils.
Flynn's arm reached out and yanked Silver into the suite just as the doors began to close.
Behind them, a couple trying to carry their injured son collapsed just feet from safety. The snakes swarmed them in an instant.
CLANG.
The doors slammed shut, sealing the survivors inside.
Twenty people, maybe less, stood in shocked silence. The luxury of the Presidential Suite felt almost surreal now. Polished floors, reclining seats, decorative lighting—all soaked in the cold sweat of terror.
Silver leaned back against the wall, breathing hard, heart pounding. His cane clattered softly to the floor beside him.
Flynn turned to the attendant who'd opened the door. "Lock it down. I want every override code engaged. These things are smart."
"Yes, sir," she replied, quickly working the panel.
Sanders, standing near the window, was pale. "They're picking people off. It's not random."
Flynn nodded grimly. "They're organized. They're hunting."
Silver sat on the floor, eyes wide. The adrenaline was still buzzing through him, but his training with Master Toh echoed in his mind—breathe, observe, survive.
He looked around the room. Survivors huddled close together. Some were crying. Some stared blankly. Some whispered prayers.
And Silver knew, deep in his gut:
This was far from over.
"Who the hell are you guys? and what are you all doing in my suite?"
...
Far from the screams and chaos of the main cabin, in one of the private compartments of the airship, a strange calm persisted.
Inside, the lights were low and flickering. The room smelled faintly of musk and old incense, its furniture pushed aside to make space. In the center, on the carpeted floor, a man sat completely still—cross-legged in the Indian lotus position.
His posture was relaxed, almost meditative. A faded bandage cap was wrapped around his head, covering his hair entirely. He wore simple brown robes, loose-fitting and weather-worn. There wasn't a single ornament or trace of metal or gold on him—just cloth, skin, and silence.
At his lips: a wooden flute, worn and cracked along the stem.
He played.
No sound came out.
At least, not one that human ears could hear.
His eyes were closed. His fingers moved slowly, pressing the flute's holes in a rhythm more ancient than speech. There was no music—but something stirred.
Through the vents above, the walls beside him, and the underfloor piping, the snakes responded.
Their scales whispered against metal as they converged, drawn by the soundless signal.
A sleek black mamba slithered onto the person's lap. A red-bellied viper curled near his feet, tongue flicking. A rattlesnake settled into a spiral in the shadows behind him, quiet as the grave.
His lips never parted. His flute never made a note. But the snakes listened.
He opened his eyes slowly. Cold. Focused.
Outside, the shrieks of terror and the pounding footsteps of survivors faded into muffled echoes.
Inside this room, there was only peace.
...
Somewhere far from the chaos unfolding in the skies, inside a sleek mansion overlooking the glimmering skyline of a distant city, Eddie Kim stood alone in his private study.
Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in the dim blue of city lights. The space was modern and clinical—glass, metal, marble. No warmth. Only power.
He held a burning cigar in one hand, its smoke curling slowly upward like a shadow slithering toward the ceiling.
The phone on his desk buzzed, and he answered immediately.
There was no greeting.
A voice on the other end, low and controlled, simply said:
"The target is aboard the vessel. He will not survive the flight."
Kim's brow lifted. He paused a beat. "Sanders?"
"Confirmed. He's onboard. My snakes are in motion."
A click echoed on the other end—almost like a distant hiss. Kim didn't ask for a name. He didn't need to.
Instead, he let out a short breath. "Good. Then prepare to receive the ten million once it's done."
Click.
The call ended.
Kim exhaled slowly, tossing the cigar into a nearby ashtray. He leaned back into his leather chair, fingers lacing behind his head, and let a smug smile spread across his face.
"That stubborn bastard really thought he could testify…"
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
"He's going to die two thousand meters in the air—no courtroom, no trial, no story."
Kim rose, pacing toward the window, looking out at the glittering expanse below. The city was his. The silence meant control.
He whispered to himself, almost like a lullaby:
"No one... escapes me."
And somewhere, high above the earth, the snakes moved in time with a silent flute.