Chapter 207: Drop Point
The cabin lights strobed red as the alarms continued their shrill warning, a mechanical shriek overlaying the groaning hull. The jet shook again, harder this time, pitching downward with growing urgency.
My breath had already steadied. My vision was razor sharp. My limbs light. Every fiber of my body moved in concert, no hesitation, no delay. My Full Profession Sync was active, and I was no longer just reacting.
I was executing.
From the moment I turned from the cockpit, the layout of the jet unfolded in my mind like a digital schematic. Observation, Thermal Perception, and Blueprint and Schematic Reading lit up in perfect tandem. I could see the stress fractures forming under the inner paneling. I could smell the faint chemical heat of the engine oil boiling through the fuselage. My brain was calculating an internal temperature graph in real time. The failure rate was exponential.
My skills were calculating horrible conditions for the plane at what was awaiting us—pressure loss escalating, engine burn variance reaching peak, fire threshold exceeding safe limit. Cabin integrity degrading by 14% per thirty seconds. At this rate? Four minutes. Maximum.
We had four minutes.
I moved.
First stop: the side storage compartment near the galley. Hidden behind the service drawers was the emergency kit—standard in luxury jets but rarely used. Inside: flare gun, beacon, one high-capacity life raft, and five high-altitude parachutes folded tight in matte-gray compression packs.
Exactly what we needed.
I slung all five parachutes across my shoulder in a single sweep and gripped the raft under one arm, its polymer shell hot to the touch from the rising cabin heat. I bolted toward the rear, feet finding perfect traction even as the floor shifted beneath me.
"Evelyn!" I called as I ran into her room against the inclined floor.