The suite had become a pressure cooker of nerves and frantic pacing. Murmurs of fear and frustration bounced off the luxury walls. Every passing second without a snake attack made the silence louder.
Flynn stood near the center table, trying to plot options. Ponzu sulked by the minibar, chewing the edge of her sleeve. The others fidgeted, whispering theories.
After twenty minutes of restless walking, Silver suddenly stopped.
He raised his hand.
"I think I have an idea," he said, voice steady and loud enough to command the room.
Everyone turned. Flynn gave a subtle nod. "Speak."
Silver looked around, gripping the cane that hadn't left his side since the attack began.
"We've been talking about other options like jumping off, running through the ship, or hunting the snakes down. But what if… option 1 was the best option?"
He took a breath.
"What if the snakes aren't just loose… but being controlled?"
That got their attention. Even Flynn straightened.
"Think about it," Silver continued. "They're not just slithering randomly. They showed up in isolated places first—people disappearing one by one. That's planned."
Ponzu blinked. "So you're saying someone's… commanding them? On the ship?"
Silver nodded.
"Exactly. And if that's true—if the controller is still onboard—then it means something else too."
He paused for effect.
"They wouldn't want the ship to crash. If they're here, they need to survive too. They wouldn't destroy the ship with them on it."
Flynn's eyes sharpened. "So they want to eliminate everyone but themselves."
"Right," Silver said. "So running around trying to 'escape' or jump off the ship only plays into their hand. We leave the suite, we're scattered. Easy prey."
He tapped the floor with his cane.
"But if we stay here—fortify this suite—we force them to come to us. They want us dead? Make them work for it."
A hush settled in the room.
Flynn looked to the others, then back at Silver, visibly impressed.
"Not bad, kid."
He clapped his hands once, sharp and authoritative.
"Everyone—listen up! We barricade this room. Lock the vents, seal the bathroom, move furniture to block doors. From now until we land, this room is our fortress."
The others got moving, energy renewed by a clear plan.
For the first time, they weren't just reacting.
They were preparing.
...
In the soft amber glow of a private cabin tucked away on the lower deck of the blimp, a lone man sat cross-legged on the floor playing his flute.
Though his fingers danced across it with practiced elegance, no sound escaped.
Not even a whisper.
But that didn't matter.
For the creatures that mattered didn't need sound.
The man paused and opened his eyes, cloudy and calm. He glanced at the wall ahead, his voice barely louder than a breath.
"Presidential suite," he murmured. "So… they've gathered."
His expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes flickered—irritation, perhaps. Or amusement.
"Witnesses. Hiding behind a locked door. Brave little rats."
He brought the flute back to his lips. The movements of his fingers resumed, swift and sharp—a command in silence.
In the walls, faint scratching sounds echoed—soft at first, then building.
"Go," he whispered. "Find a way in. Vents. Pipes. Cracks. I don't care how."
"They believe they're safe."
"Prove them wrong."
The hissing grew louder.
And then, it was gone.
...
The air inside the presidential suite had turned heavy. Each person stood tense, backs to walls or gripping improvised weapons. Flynn stood by the door, pistol drawn, eyes narrowed. Silver crouched by the vent with his cane ready, sweat collecting at his brow.
Then—
BANG.
A thunderous slam shook the suite's main door.
Someone—or something—was trying to get in.
More banging followed, rhythmic, forceful—an unnatural pressure pounding at every weak point they had reinforced.
Then came the hissing.
It slid through the air like a poisonous whisper. A chorus of serpentine menace, multiplied and multiplied again. From somewhere behind the walls, behind the vents, the snakes were gathering.
"They're trying everything," Flynn muttered, pressing a hand to the reinforced door.
Slithering sounds echoed in the suite. From the ceiling vent. From under the mini-fridge. From behind the bathroom mirror.
Everyone went silent, frozen, listening.
Clink. Tap. Rattle.
One of the vents on the far side of the room shook violently.
"Hold!" Flynn ordered. "Don't break formation!"
The vent groaned. Ponzu gritted her teeth and held her satchel closely.
But the mesh and duct tape Silver had applied—layers of towels, pillows, and even curtain rods—held strong. The cover bulged outward for a moment… then stopped.
Thump. Thump. Slither.
The sounds continued for minutes that stretched like hours. But no breach came.
"They're trying every entry," Silver whispered.
Flynn turned to him and gave the slightest nod.
"And so far, they're failing."
For now.
Everyone exchanged glances—equal parts relief and dread.
The siege had begun.