Your phone screen glowed with a travel article. Top Ten Beaches in Okinawa. A cold bottle of water sat in the cup holder beside you. The passenger next to you, an older man in a business suit, was already asleep, snoring softly.

The flight attendant's voice crackled over the intercom, smooth and professional, announcing the current altitude and approximate time until landing. Forty-five minutes left. You could almost feel the sand between your toes.

The plane shuddered.

Just once. A small jolt. Turbulence. Normal.

The seatbelt sign flickered. Once. Twice. Then it blazed red.

The cabin lights buzzed, dimmed, and died completely for half a second before flickering back to life, weaker than before. The overhead compartments rattled violently, and somewhere, a suitcase slammed open. Clothes scattered.

Metal screamed. Wind howled through a breach somewhere behind you, a deafening roar that drowned out every other sound. The plane was breaking apart.

Darkness.