“Maybe,” he admitted. “But you stopped him.”
“For now.”
That was the part no one else seemed to understand.
This wasn’t over.
Not really.
That day on Flight 417 wasn’t an ending—it was a message. A reminder that the world she tried to leave behind had never let her go.
And maybe… never would.
A cold wind swept across the runway, tugging lightly at her sleeve. Mara finally turned, her expression calm—but her eyes sharper than ever.
“I keep thinking about something,” she said.
Hayes waited.
“He knew I was on that plane.”
The implication hung in the air.
Not coincidence.
Not chance.
Planned.
Hayes exhaled slowly. “You think it was meant for you?”
Mara didn’t answer right away.
But she didn’t need to.
Somewhere, far beyond the clouds, a storm was forming again.
And this time…
It wasn’t just about survival.
It was about unfinished history.
Later that night, alone in her quarters, Mara sat at the edge of her bed, staring at a small object resting in her hand.
A worn metal insignia.
Her old squadron.
She had carried it through everything—missions, losses, silence.
And now… it felt heavier than ever.
Her phone buzzed softly on the table.
Unknown number.
She hesitated—just for a second—before answering.
Silence.
Then—
A faint crackle.
And a voice she would never forget.
“You still fly the same way, Mara…”
Her blood ran cold.
