Then the perimeter erupted with cameras and shouting voices.
Reporters. Questions. A swarm hungry for a story.
“Who are you?”
“How did you do it?”
“Are you military?”
I didn’t answer.
I just glanced back at the passengers pressed to the windows, waving, crying, mouthing thank you like they might never stop.
I gave them a small nod.
That was all they got.
A man in a dark suit met me near a plain black vehicle.
He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t need to.
He only said, “Falcon One.”
And it wasn’t a compliment.
It was a summons.
Inside a restricted lounge, the lights were dim and the air smelled like stale coffee and old rules.
A few uniforms stood around like statues.
An older officer stepped forward, eyes sharp, face carved by time.
“It’s been a long time,” he said quietly. “You vanished.”
I sat down slow. My knees felt heavier than they should.
