I noticed him the second I boarded—the cowboy hat, the broad shoulders, the kind of face that made you sit up straighter. He kept looking at me the way someone studies a painting: quiet, intense. When turbulence hit, he stood beside me and said, low and calm, “You shouldn’t be worried about the bumps.” My heart did a stupid little jump. “Why not?” I asked. He glanced away and murmured, “Because that’s not what you should be worried about.”
Then he flashed a badge. “I didn’t come on this flight by accident,” he said. “I’m watching someone.” My breath stalled. Before I could ask more, the lights flickered, a scream, and Maddox was already moving—calm, fast—toward the back. I watched him pin a struggling man in a blue jacket to the exit row. Chaos erupted; a small silver device rolled to my foot and blinked.
