RIGHT NOW, PLANE WITH MORE THAN 244 ONBOARD JUST CRASH…

The rain was hitting the glass of the Sector 4 control tower in rhythmic, heavy sheets, blurring the runway lights into long streaks of neon green and white. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with a tense, low-frequency hum.

"Trans-Atlantic 414, confirm entry into holding pattern Charlie," Marcus said into his headset, his eyes scanning the radar sweep. A cluster of green blips crawled across the screen, a delicate ballet of hundreds of tons of metal suspended in the dark.

Suddenly, a sharp beep pierced the ambient noise of the room. On the secondary console, a flight tag flashed a violent, unblinking crimson.

Flight 882. Boeing 777. En route from London. 244 souls onboard.

"Center, this is Flight 882, we have an uncontained failure in engine two, losing altitude rapidly, requesting immediate emergency diversion to runway nine," the pilot's voice crackled through the static. It was remarkably steady, the voice of a man relying entirely on muscle memory and thousands of hours of training, but beneath it lay a terrifying undercurrent of gravity.

Marcus’s fingers flew across his keyboard, clearing the airspace. "Flight 882, you are cleared for immediate approach to runway nine. Wind is 240 at 18 knots, rain is heavy. Emergency crews are deploying."

On the radar,.... 

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