The air inside The Sparrow's cabin felt like a silent stranglehold made of a mix of ozone, Mateo's cold sweat, and Gabriel's fading baby powder scent, now overwhelmed by the smell of jet fuel. At thirty-five thousand feet, the Mediterranean sky looked like a stretch of black velvet studded with shattered diamonds, silent yet holding a threat capable of tearing apart their plane's steel integrity in the blink of an eye. Mateo Rossi gripped the control stick with white knuckles, his eyes red from lack of sleep, but his focus was as sharp as a newly honed razor.
Beside him, Elena sat, holding Gabriel, who was sound asleep wrapped in a thermal blanket. The baby looked incredibly calm, as if unaware that his brain's frequency had just scorched an elite squadron of combat drones in the Pacific
