The cabin watched in total silence. $8 million worth of first class tickets, and not one person moved to help a man pick his belongings off the floor.
Marshall stood, zipped the bag, slung it over his shoulder. Gretchen stepped aside to let him pass, and as he walked by, she leaned in close enough that only he could hear. Close enough that her breath touched his ear. "I always win with your kind. Always."
Marshall didn't react, didn't turn, didn't slow down. He walked through the curtain into economy. The fabric brushed his shoulder as he passed, a thin polyester dividing line between the people who mattered and the people who didn't.
Behind him, Gretchen smoothed her uniform, adjusted her name tag, and turned to the cabin with the brightest smile she'd worn all day. "I sincerely apologize for that unpleasantness. Now, can I freshen anyone's champagne?" Two passengers accepted. One even smiled back.
Amy Torres stood in the galley doorway, a towel twisted so tight between her hands that her knuckles had gone white. Her eyes were red. She blinked hard twice and turned away before anyone could see.
In economy, Marshall found an open middle seat in row 34. He sat down between a college student with earbuds and a grandmother knitting a yellow scarf. Neither looked at him. Neither had any idea. He pulled out his phone. One call. The line picked up on the first ring.
"It's done," Marshall said. His voice was low, flat, and absolutely steady. "Close the deal tonight, every share, and pull their personnel files, all of them. Start with the flight crew roster for flight 714."
The call lasted 31 seconds. Marshall put the phone down, leaned his head against the seat, closed his eyes. The grandmother next to him glanced over. She saw the cracked book in his lap, the frayed backpack at his feet, the dust on his boots. She smiled softly and went back to her knitting. She had no idea she was sitting next to the man who in less than 48 hours would own every plane, every gate, and every paycheck at Skyane Airways.
The plane landed at JFK at 8:47 p.m. Marshall was the last to deplane. He walked through the jetway with his backpack over one shoulder and his broken book in his hand. He didn't look back at the aircraft once.