Julien, the cabin's senior flight attendant, adjusted his cuffs and surveyed the six occupied pods. Tonight’s passengers were a curated collection of desires.

The seatbelt sign clicked off. Julien’s voice, a warm, authoritative baritone, purred over the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Midnight Service. Our cruising altitude is 38,000 feet. The temperature is set to 23 degrees Celsius, but I suspect you will find ways to generate your own heat. Please feel free to… explore the amenities."

And somewhere over the Atlantic, Flight 304 was already turning around, ready to take off again, carrying its next cargo of secrets into the dark.

Julien leaned in, his voice a whisper. "That’s the point, monsieur. Your only job is to say 'red' if you want to stop. Otherwise, trust the process. Your partner is already waiting."

He walked the aisle, a tray in his hands. For Madame Fournier: a black silk sleep mask and a pair of velvet-lined cuffs. For Leo: a simple card with a room number—the onboard private suite, 2B—and a key card. Leo looked up, panicked. "I… I’ve never—"

Julien knelt beside her. "That's the destination, mademoiselle. Not New York. This."

Julien then approached Clara's pod. The privacy screen was drawn, but a small light glowed green—permission to enter. He slid the door open a crack. Clara was sitting perfectly still, hands in her lap, eyes closed.

Finally, Julien checked on Clara. She was untied, curled in the fetal position on the suite's wide berth, the blindfold pushed up to her forehead. Tears streaked her cheeks, but her expression was serene. She looked up at him.