Across the aisle, an elderly woman in 2C was slowly blinking, her head nodding forward as if she were fighting an overwhelming urge to sleep.

I looked down the aisle and saw three other passengers rubbing their temples, their faces tight with confusion.

A strange, sweet smell hung in the air, like overripe fruit mixed with burnt plastic.

“I need a glass of water,” Gerald said, his eyelids fluttering.

He reached for his empty cup, but his hand missed the armrest entirely, and his fingers brushed empty air.

“Mr. Whitmore?” I said, leaning down to touch his arm.

His skin felt damp and cool.

“I feel… so tired,” he murmured, his eyes closing completely.

Panic surged through me as I realized the toxin was already leaking into the main cabin.

I turned back toward the cockpit door, but before I could take a step, a loud click echoed through the ceiling.

The overhead vents did not release oxygen masks.

Instead, a high-pitched hiss vibrated through the metal frame of the ceiling panels.

A thin, greyish mist began to curl downward from the circular plastic nozzles.