"Seat 15A," the agent said, handing back Jason's passport with a smile.
"You'll have the window to yourself."
Jason gave her a two-finger salute.
"Living the dream."
By the time they boarded, the cabin lights had dipped to a warm amber, stretching shadows down the aisle like the set of a sci-fi movie.
Jason reached his seat—row 15, safely distanced from his team—and slid in with the ease of someone who knew how to disappear in plain sight. He clicked his seatbelt into place and exhaled slowly.
It wasn't about being antisocial.
It was about needing room.
Literal room.
Mental room.
The mission in Berlin hung over him like a black cloud that hadn't decided when to burst. And he needed quiet to think.
Or at least the illusion of it.
Then came the rustle.
An old man, all elbows and folded cloth, shuffled into the seat beside him. His suit had seen better decades, and his hands shook slightly as he tucked a blanket over his lap.
A faint scent trailed behind him—tobacco, old books, maybe even time itself.
Jason glanced over, offered a polite nod.
The man returned it with a smile that suggested he saw more than he let on.
"Long flight," he murmured, voice marked with an accent Jason couldn't place.
"Or maybe not. Depends how you look at it."
Jason nodded.
The plane began to taxi, engines humming low like a beast warming up.
Outside, the runway lights streaked past in golden blurs, then—lift.
That signature pause, the suspension of gravity—
and they were airborne, carving into the night sky.
Jason leaned against the window.
Bangalore shrank below them, lit like a board game with missing pieces, then vanished into cloud.
He closed his eyes.
He wasn't going to sleep—not really—but sometimes just pretending to helped.
When you're part of high-stakes work, sometimes quiet is the loudest thing you get.
A while later, a stewardess offered drinks. Jason waved her off, his eyes still on the dark outside.
Beside him, the old man stirred.
"You don't sleep," he said quietly.
Jason cracked a grin.
"Not unless I'm horizontal and emotionally secure. So… pretty much never."
The man gave a soft laugh.
"Your people are in the back?"
Jason leaned his head against the seat.
"Yeah."
"You don't sit with them?"
"No. I wanted some quiet," he said. Then, with a shrug,
"And I like the window."
Jason blinked.
"Do I know you?"
The old man didn't answer right away.
Just looked at him with something in his eyes that didn't quite match the casual question.
Jason sat up a little.
"Look, I'm good with faces, but yours is giving me mystery novel energy. You CIA or just retired and bored?"
The man chuckled, low and dry.
"Neither. Just observant."
"Dangerous hobby."
The old man's expression softened.
"Why do you keep your emotions so closed off, young man? Don't you think it makes it hard for people to really connect with you?"
Jason hesitated.
The grin faltered for a fraction of a second.
He cleared his throat, leaned back again.
"Look, I'm emotionally available from nine to five on weekdays, with breaks for sarcasm and strategic deflection. That enough?"
"That's a mask," the old man said.
"Yeah," Jason replied. "But it fits."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Jason turned back to the window, eyes narrowed.
"I'm not trying to be difficult," he said.
"I just… don't have a lot of room in the overhead bin for emotional baggage.
Got a mission.
Got people relying on me.
No time for unpacking."
The old man nodded slowly.
"Still. Connection matters.
Even if it's just across an armrest. Or others who wish to from beyond the armrest."
Jason glanced at him, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah," he said.
"Well. Let's see how this flight goes before we become best friends."
The man shifted in his seat, blanket snug around his legs.
"Anyway," he murmured, almost to himself,
"There was a time… or maybe it was a dream. Hard to say. Once—"