The service exit smelled like garbage and cleaning supplies. Industrial. Unpleasant. Exactly the kind of place nobody paid attention to.

I left first, wearing Camille's masterpiece outfit. The hooded jacket shadowed my face without looking deliberately concealing. The glasses changed my facial structure subtly. The layering made my build less distinctive. And underneath it all, that subtle emotional manipulation—boring, ordinary, not worth remembering—worked like a shield.

The alley behind the building was empty except for a few maintenance workers on their break. Their eyes slid past me without recognition. Without interest. Just another person leaving through the back.

I walked three blocks before hailing a cab. Gave the driver the airport address and settled into the back seat, keeping my hood up but not suspiciously so.

The drive took forty minutes. Traffic was heavier than usual—probably related to the chaos around our building. But we made it eventually, and I paid in cash, tipping well but not memorably.

The airport was massive. Thousands of people moving through terminals, all focused on their own destinations, their own concerns. Perfect cover.

I spotted Evelyn near the ticket counter, though only because I knew to look for her. In her business casual outfit, she blended seamlessly into the crowd of travelers. She made brief eye contact, then looked away. Acknowledging without acknowledging.

Security would be the real test.

Evelyn had provided fake passports for all of us—documents she'd apparently created back when I was still hiding my identity and needed quick travel options. Professional work. Good enough to pass cursory inspection but not deep scrutiny.

I watched from a distance as the others went through security.

Alexis went first. She had it easiest—the least public appearances of any of us. Her work as a doctor was impressive but not widely known. She moved through the metal detector with professional calm, her outfit making her look like any other business traveler. Security didn't give her a second glance.

Evelyn next. Slightly more risk here—she'd been my secretary, had appeared in some public settings. But the broadcast from Mark hadn't focused on her specifically. Just mentioned me. And her outfit, combined with Camille's emotional manipulation, made her forgettable.

The security officer checking IDs barely looked at her face. Just scanned the passport, waved her through. She collected her bag and disappeared into the terminal.

Then came Camille and Sienna together—they'd left at the same time, figuring the risk was similar for both.

That was trickier. Camille's fashion work had made her famous, and they had appeared at my side during public events. Their message from yesterday was circulating online, photos being shared and analyzed.

I watched tensely as they approached security. The officer checking IDs studied Camille's passport slightly longer than the others. My hand instinctively moved toward my pocket—ready to create a distraction if needed.

But then the officer nodded, handing back the passport. Both women moved through the metal detector, collected their belongings, and walked calmly toward the boarding area.

My turn.

I approached the security checkpoint with measured steps. Not too fast, not too slow. Just another tired traveler heading somewhere.

The officer checking IDs was a middle-aged man with the bored expression of someone who'd seen thousands of faces today already. He took my passport, scanned it, glanced at my face.

The glasses and hood did their work. The emotional manipulation made him want to move on to the next person. He handed back the passport without comment.

I placed my bag on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector.

No beeping. Clean.

I was reaching for my bag when a different security officer approached. "Sir, you've been selected for a random search. Please come with me."

My heart rate spiked, but I kept my expression neutral. "Of course."

He led me to a small room off to the side. Private. Secure. The kind of place where they did thorough checks away from public view.

"Arms out, please," he said professionally.

I complied, letting him pat me down. His hands moved methodically—checking for weapons, contraband, anything suspicious. He got close to my face a few times, and I held my breath, worried he'd adjust the hood or glasses to get a better look.

But he didn't. The emotional manipulation in Camille's clothing worked even here, making him subconsciously want to finish quickly and move on to more interesting subjects.

"You're clear," he said finally. "Thank you for your cooperation."

I collected my bag and exited the room, forcing myself to walk at a normal pace even though every instinct screamed to run.

I made it.

I found my gate and took a seat away from the others. Evelyn was reading a book three rows over. Alexis had her laptop out, working on something medical. Camille was browsing her phone. Sienna was people-watching, her caring nature making her interested in the other travelers even in disguise.

We didn't acknowledge each other. Didn't make eye contact. Just waited separately for boarding to begin.

The announcement came thirty minutes later. First class boarding first, then by zone. We'd all gotten different zones to spread out the boarding process.

I was zone three. Middle of the pack.

I boarded smoothly, found my seat. Window seat, just as Evelyn had promised. The emotional manipulation in my outfit meant the person in the aisle seat barely registered my presence as I settled in.

The plane was large—probably three hundred passengers. Good for anonymity. Bad if we got caught, because there was nowhere to run at thirty thousand feet.

The thought made my stomach clench. On the ground, if security identified us, we could run. Fight. Create chaos and escape in the confusion.

On a plane? We were trapped. Completely at the mercy of whoever recognized us. And hijacking the plane was beyond extreme even for us—the kind of action that would prove every terrible thing Mark had said in his broadcast.

I tried not to think about it. Just focused on settling into my seat, adjusting the hood so it still shadowed my face without looking suspicious.

The aisle seat was taken by an older businessman who immediately put in earbuds and closed his eyes. Perfect.

The middle seat was occupied by a young girl—maybe seven or eight—with her mother in the aisle seat across from mine. They weren't sitting together, so it became evident that they were saving money.

The plane filled up. Engines started. Safety announcements played. We taxied to the runway.

I leaned my head against the window, trying to get comfortable. The plan was to sleep through the flight. Just close my eyes and wake up in Europe, closer to safety.

But as the plane took off, climbing through clouds and leveling out at cruising altitude, I felt eyes on me.

I opened my eyes slightly, trying to see without being obvious.

The kid in the middle seat was staring at me.

Just… staring. Not looking away even when her mother absent-mindedly told her to stop looking at strangers.

My blood ran cold. Did she recognize me? Kids were unpredictable—less affected by subtle emotional manipulation, more likely to speak without filter. If she suddenly shouted "That's Reynard Vale!" the entire plane would turn to look.

Game over. No escape. Just capture and whatever came next.

I kept my eyes mostly closed, watching through slitted eyelids as the kid continued staring.

Her mother's voice came again, more insistent. "Sarah, stop staring at people. It's rude."

But Sarah didn't stop. Her eyes were locked on… something.

I followed her gaze and realized she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the screen mounted on the seat in front of me.

The in-flight entertainment system was displaying news headlines. And there, dominating the screen, was Mark's face.

"MARK AKA SUBJECT 3834 GAINS GLOBAL SUPPORT"

"70% OF SURVEYED POPULATIONS BACK MARK'S ALLEGATIONS"

"REYNARD VALE: HERO OR FRAUD?"

The kid tugged on her mother's sleeve. "Mommy, who's Mark?"

Her mother glanced up from her own screen—where she was watching a movie—and looked at the news display with mild interest.

"He's a hero, sweetie," she said simply. "Someone who tells the truth about bad people."

Then she went back to her movie, dismissing the question as answered.

I felt something cold settle in my chest. Not fear. Not shock. Just… fury. Quiet, burning fury that had nowhere to go.

Seventy percent support. In less than forty-eight hours, Mark had convinced seventy percent of surveyed populations that his version of events was true. That I was a fraud. That everything I'd built was tainted by my father's crimes.

And this woman—this random mother on a plane—had accepted that narrative without question. Told her daughter that Mark was a hero. That he told the truth about "bad people."

Meaning me. I was the bad person in this equation.

I wanted to say something. Wanted to defend myself. Wanted to explain that Mark was a murderer, a manipulator, someone who'd killed my friend and stood over the bodies while broadcasting propaganda.

But I couldn't. Couldn't risk speaking, couldn't risk drawing attention, couldn't risk anything that might compromise our escape.

So I just sat there, staring at that news headline, watching my reputation—three years of work—burn to ashes in real time.

The kid eventually lost interest and started playing with a tablet her mother handed her. The news cycle moved on to other stories. The world kept turning.

I closed my eyes fully, leaning my head back against the window. The cold glass pressed against my skull, grounding me slightly.

Sleep. Just sleep. When I wake up, we'll be in Europe. One step closer to Elliot's farm. One step closer to safety.

One step closer to figuring out how to fight back against a narrative that had already won.

The plane hummed around me. Engines steady. People talking quietly. The normal sounds of a long flight.

And somewhere in that white noise, exhaustion finally claimed me.

When I woke up, we'd be in Europe.

And then… then we'd figure out what came next.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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