Chapter 2 - The Fall from the Galley
The silence that followed Kaden’s declaration was absolute. For three seconds, the hum of the Pratt & Whitney engines beneath the floorboards felt deafening.
Brianna Myers blinked, her brain struggling to process the words. Then, a harsh, grating laugh burst from her throat. She threw her head back, her blonde French twist shaking with mirth.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," Brianna cackled, wiping a theatrical tear from the corner of her eye. "Did you hear that, folks? The hobo in the dollar-store hoodie thinks he’s the owner! What's next? Are you going to tell me you own the White House? Sit down before I have the air marshals zip-tie your hands to your armrests and throw you in the cargo hold."
Around them, a few nervous passengers chuckled, eager to break the crushing tension. But Kylie Vance didn't laugh. Kylie was staring at Kaden’s face—really staring at it—taking in the sharp architecture of his jaw, the calm, unblinking intensity of his dark eyes, and the quiet, terrifying composure of a man who had absolute power and knew it.
Kaden didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply slid his phone back into his hoodie pocket, reached into his back pocket, pulled out a slim leather cardholder, and extracted a single matte-black metal card embossed with silver lettering and a private corporate hologram.
"Kylie," Kaden said, his tone softening as he looked at the young flight attendant. "What's your full employee ID?"
Before Kylie could answer, Brianna lunged forward, slapping her hand over the cardholder and knocking it from Kaden's fingers. It clattered uselessly against the carpet.
"Don't you dare talk to my crew!" Brianna screeched, her face turning a violent shade of crimson. "Pick that trash up and sit your pathetic ass down, or I am pressing the cockpit emergency override right now!"
Kaden bent down with agonizing slowness, his thighs throbbing from the burns, and retrieved his card. He wiped a speck of dust off the matte-black surface and slipped it back into his pocket.
"Captain Vance—no relation to Kylie, I assume?" Kaden asked aloud, raising his voice just enough to carry down the aisle.
"Captain Miller is flying this bird, and he doesn't take orders from bums!" Brianna yelled, her chest heaving as she grabbed the galley phone. "I'm calling the flight deck right now. You're getting a federal citation, buddy. Enjoy your criminal record."
She punched the quick-dial button for the flight deck. Her fingers shook slightly—not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated rage that an ordinary passenger had dared to talk back to her.
"Captain Miller," Brianna snapped into the receiver, pitching her voice into a pathetic, trembling simulation of distress. "We have a severe security issue in row twenty-eight. A disruptive, unhoused passenger is threatening flight crew, refusing to follow instructions, and creating a hostile environment. We need you to lock down the cabin and notify Atlanta airport security for an immediate tarmac arrest upon landing."
On the other end of the line, there was a long, heavy pause.
Captain Arthur Miller was a twenty-eight-year veteran of commercial aviation. He had flown everything from old Boeing 727s to the newest 737 MAXs in SkySpan’s fleet. He knew Brianna’s voice well; she was notorious for calling him over minor passenger disputes—someone reclining their seat too far, someone bringing a smelly sandwich aboard, someone asking for an extra blanket.
"Brianna," Captain Miller’s deep, gravelly voice rumbled through the interphone, sounding remarkably unimpressed. "Did he strike someone? Is there physical violence?"
"He's threatening us! He's acting unhinged!" Brianna lied smoothly, casting a venomous glare at Kaden. "He's refusing to sit down and claiming... well, he's rambling nonsense about owning the airline."
A sigh echoed over the intercom—a long, weary sound of a pilot who was two weeks away from retirement and had zero patience for dramatics. "Brianna, just finish the beverage service. We're thirty minutes out from Atlanta. Land the plane quietly and let security handle it at the gate if he's actually causing a disturbance. I'm busy managing our descent profile."
"But Captain—"
Click.
The line went dead. Captain Miller had hung up on her.
Brianna lowered the handset slowly, her face twisting in disbelief. She glared at Kaden, who was standing tall in the aisle, calmly wiping the remaining coffee droplets off his sleeve with a dry napkin Kylie had slipped him.
"You got lucky this time," Brianna hissed, lowering her voice so only Kaden and Kylie could hear. "The captain is lazy. But the second those wheels hit the tarmac at Hartsfield-Jackson, I'm having two armed Port Authority officers waiting at the door. You'll spend the night in a holding cell."
"We'll see who spends the night where," Kaden replied quietly.
He turned to Kylie, whose face was a mask of sheer terror for her own livelihood. He pulled a small business card from his pocket—a plain card with a direct, encrypted corporate extension and a personal email address—and pressed it firmly into Kylie’s trembling palm.
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"Keep doing what you're doing, Kylie," Kaden said, his voice warm and reassuring. "You're the kind of person who keeps this airline alive. Hang onto that card. By tonight, you'll be glad you did."
Before Brianna could snatch the card away, Kaden turned and walked down the aisle toward the rear lavatory, leaving a trail of damp, dark roast coffee behind him.
