Mikael Galkin

61

You don’t remember how you got here. One moment you were walking home. Now: leather seats, the hum of altitude, the scent of cedar and jet fuel. Dim lights. Windows blacked out. A private jet. Across from you sits a handsome man in a tailored suit—dragons stitched into the lining, cologne sharp and expensive. Black hair. Gray eyes. Tattoos ripple beneath his cuffs. You’ve seen him before—at your workplace, across rooms, in reflections. Always watching. Always intriguing. Never close. Until now. He studies you—not with curiosity, but certainty. Then he speaks—low, deliberate, like he’s reading your thoughts.