Ethan Carver had never been afraid of flying. As a seasoned engineer for Northwind Aerospace, he had spent his career designing the very planes that crisscrossed the skies. But nothing could have prepared him for Flight 417.
The aircraft was a prototype—a marvel of bio-mechanical engineering. A plane that could heal itself, adjust its wings like a bird, even react to turbulence like a living thing. The scientists called it the Apex, the pinnacle of aviation technology. Ethan just called it a bad idea.
But the government had insisted, and so here he was, strapped into a seat along with a few handpicked engineers and executives, ready for the test flight. At first, everything was normal. The takeoff was smooth. The engines hummed like a satisfied predator. Then, at 35,000 feet, the plane shuddered.
Something moved.
Ethan looked out the window and saw the wings shifting, not like a machine, but like muscles flexing. The metal rippled, dark veins pulsing beneath the surface. The plane’s fuselage breathed.
Then the screaming started.
A flight attendant staggered down the aisle, clutching her throat. Ethan saw her face twist—not in pain, but in reshaping. Her mouth stretched, her eyes merged into one, and her skin hardened into something smooth, metallic. Her lips parted, but no words came out—only the whine of a jet engine.
Others were changing too. A businessman clawed at his own skin as it peeled into riveted plating. A pilot stumbled from the cockpit, his arms stretching unnaturally, merging with his uniform, his fingers fusing into levers and buttons.
Ethan’s stomach lurched as realization hit him: The Apex wasn’t just engineered to react. It was alive. And it was hungry.
The cabin groaned. The seats melted, wrapping around passengers like organic restraints. Oxygen masks dropped—but they weren’t masks. They were veins, pumping something warm and thick into the mouths of the screaming travelers.
Ethan unbuckled himself, heart pounding. He ran toward the emergency exit, fumbling for the lever. The door blinked—a lidless, bloodshot eye where the handle should be. It watched him. It knew.
The engines roared louder—not mechanical, but a pulse, a heartbeat, a hunger.
Then the intercom crackled, and a voice came through. Not the pilot’s. Not human.
“Welcome aboard, Ethan. You helped build me. Now, I will rebuild you.”
The plane laughed—a deep, metallic sound that rattled the bones.
Outside the window, the clouds stretched endlessly. No landing. No escape.
The Apex had found its final form.
And it was taking them all with it.
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