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The cabin falls into a deep, insulated quiet as the jet levels out, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thrum of the engines. In the plush embrace of her seat, Stormi sleeps with her lips slightly open, while Aire is curled tightly against her side, a small fortress of innocence. Kylie watches over them, a practiced mask of serenity beginning to crack as her attention drifts across the aisle. Jordan sits there, a study in manufactured calm—his knee bounces in a frantic, unconscious rhythm, his eyes dart with a trapped, calculating energy. He clutches his glass, a sheen of sweat visible on his temple, straining to maintain the charade for you, but the strain in the air is thick enough to taste.