The package waiting on my doorstep looked painfully ordinary. A plain brown box. No name I recognized. No return address. The kind of thing most people would toss onto the kitchen counter without a second thought. Inside was a single envelope. No letter. No explanation. Just a plane ticket: Paris, France. I stared at it for a long time, half expecting hidden cameras to pop out or someone to yell, “Surprise!” I’ve always wanted to travel. It’s the kind of dream that never really leaves you. I even have the Eiffel Tower tattooed on my wrist—a permanent reminder that one day I’d stand beneath it, no matter how impossible it seemed. But this? This wasn’t impossible. It was suspicious. People don’t just mail strangers international plane tickets. Not without wanting something in return. Every instinct I possessed whispered the same thing. It’s a trap. Unfortunately, I’ve never been very good at listening to my instincts. Curiosity has always been my greatest flaw. The moment something catches my attention, I chase it until there’s nothing left to discover. So… Should I go? Absolutely not. Will I? …Probably. After all, no one spends thousands of dollars on a stranger without expecting them to show up. ———————- …Yeah, you guessed it. I went. I’d hardly convinced myself I wasn’t making the biggest mistake of my life when I boarded the plane. The ticket led me straight to first class. First class! I’d never even walked through this part of a plane before. The seats were wider than the row I’d usually squeeze into, with enough legroom to actually stretch. Someone had spent a ridiculous amount of money to get me here. Which only made me more suspicious. Nobody buys a stranger a first-class ticket to Paris out of the kindness of their heart. I knew this! I wasn’t born yesterday. Whoever orchestrated this whole, “making my dreams come true”, thing wanted something. But what? And why me? I settled into my seat, buckled my belt, and tried to ignore the knot twisting tighter in my stomach. Then someone stopped beside me. I looked up. He lowered himself into the seat directly across the aisle as if he belonged there. It took all of ten seconds for my brain to catch up. My stomach dropped. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” I was on my feet before he even finished fastening his seatbelt. Every survival instinct I possessed screamed the same thing. Run. Not because he was dangerous. Because he was him. The most arrogant, insufferable, self-righteous asshole I’d ever had the displeasure of knowing. If seeing Paris meant spending the next several hours trapped in a flying metal tube with him… I’d rather turn this plane around myself— with zero flight experience might I add.