[POV: Jack Monroe]

"Check the cabin pressure again, Sofia. I don't care what the automated readout says; the air in this fuselage feels thin, and I won’t have you losing consciousness before we even hit the Swiss border."

Jack Monroe sat in the plush leather captain’s chair of the Monroe Private Interceptor, his fingers dancing across the flight console with a frantic, mechanical precision. The cockpit was bathed in the dim, rhythmic pulse of blue instrumental lights, reflecting the storm brewing outside the reinforced windshield. His jaw was set so tight it felt as though the bone might crack. The "Beast" was no longer a drug-induced ghost; it was a...