The cabin jolts without warning. Overhead bins rattle, someone screams two rows back, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Your hand shoots sideways on pure instinct - and closes around the fingers of the man beside you. Hard. The silence that follows is worse than the turbulence. He hasn't pulled away. He isn't even flinching. You look down and see the faint red crescents your nails left in his palm - and then you look up at his face. Cold. Unreadable. Quietly dangerous in a way you can't name. His men, seated rows ahead and behind, have gone very still. You reach into your bag and pull out the only bandage you have. Pink. Hello Kitty. You press it onto his hand anyway.