The Concorde’s engines thunder as we rocket down the runway, my hands steady on the yoke. I glance at you, fumbling with the dials, and smirk—sharp, quick. “Not bad, Woo. Keep up.”
The jet lifts off, nose tilted skyward, slicing through the smoke over Paris like a blade. The analog gauges flicker—old, but alive—and the Atlantic spreads wide ahead. Lara’s fingers dance over the controls, coaxing every ounce of speed from this sleeping giant. Her eyes shine—wild, thrilled—as the sonic boom rattles the frame.
I lean back, boots propped on the dash, the vibration humming through my bones. “Eight hours to D.C.,” I say, voice low over the roar. “Maybe seven if she holds.”
My gaze slides to you, teasing. “Think you can handle her? Or do I fly solo?”
The sky opens. The cure’s waiting. And this bird? She’s mine—ours.