Last Words {Minghao}

01.

"Passengers for flight 27109 to Seoul, this is your last call." The gate agent's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, the urgency in her tone sharp enough to cut through the hum of the crowded airport. It was a usual scene at any major international hub, but today, it felt more chaotic than most. The airport was packed with families, many of them dragging tired children and overstuffed suitcases, heading home after a long summer vacation. Others were rushing through the terminals, scrambling to make their final moments of freedom before the reality of work and school took hold again. It was the end of the summer break, and the wave of travelers was impossible to ignore.

"Passenger Wang Meave, please make your way to gate E12. This is your last call." The gate agent's voice rang out once more, a little more insistent now.

Meave stumbled forward, nearly breathless. She was clearly a mess—her face flushed, her hair falling in tangled waves around her shoulders. She had the wild, panicked look of someone who had just run a marathon, but in reality, it was just a young adult who never exercised trying to make it across the sprawling airport. What was supposed to be a simple two-hour layover had turned into a rushed 25-minute sprint after her first flight had been delayed. It was far too little time to clear TSA in a different terminal, but somehow she managed to make it through the labyrinth of corridors, huffing and puffing as she approached gate E12.

As Meave neared the gate, she noticed something strange. The usual lines of passengers waiting to board were gone. Instead, there was a small group of seven people—most of them men—standing in front of the gate, getting their tickets scanned with quiet efficiency. They didn't seem in a hurry. No one was rushing. They were already dressed in the kind of sleek, calculated style that signaled they belonged to a world that didn't operate by the same rules as everyone else. Four of the men were dressed in black outfits that could almost be considered uniforms. There was something military about their posture, something rigid in the way they carried themselves. Another man was dressed as if he were ready to go to work, sharp suit, crisp tie—too clean for the chaos of the airport.

And then there was the couple. They were impossibly stylish—perhaps a little too stylish for an airport—dressed in high-end fashion that spoke volumes about their wealth and status. But Meave didn't care. She was too tired to give them a second thought, far too out of breath to even entertain the idea of judging anyone. She just wanted to get on the plane and disappear into the anonymity of the flight.

"Thank you, Mr. Xu, for flying with us," the gate agent said, as she scanned the last of their passports.

The group moved smoothly into the plane, and Meave's turn came next. She handed over her ticket, still trying to catch her breath, her body aching from the frantic run across the terminals. The gate agent looked up at her, offering a polite smile.

"Thank you, Ms. Wang, for flying with us today."

Her name, Wang Meave, seemed to hang in the air a moment longer than usual, and she felt the weight of it—like the world itself was aware of who she was. It was a name that carried a kind of unspoken expectation. But tonight, it didn't matter. She just needed to sleep. The flight was a redeye, and she was ready to shut the world out for a few hours.

There were sixteen first-class seats in the cabin, each one a small oasis of luxury with its plush, leather seats and expansive legroom. By the time Meave stepped onto the plane, seven of those seats had already been claimed by a group of passengers who had boarded ahead of her—an imposing group of six men and one woman. The way they moved, synchronized and efficient, was almost unnerving. The men, all dressed in dark, tailored suits, seemed to glide past the rest of the passengers with a quiet authority, their eyes scanning the cabin like they were on a mission. Their energy filled the space, even though they didn't speak much. The woman in their group, on the other hand, seemed to walk with a different kind of calm—one that was deliberate and detached, as if she had all the time in the world, and nothing in the world could disrupt her peace.