Sven leaned back against the couch in the private lounge, arms spread wide, a grin plastered across his face like a man who'd just stumbled onto buried treasure. The soft leather creaked beneath him as he kicked one boot over the other.

"Would you look at that," he muttered, eyes glinting with amusement. "The Phaser's got a bloody pedigree."

Takeshi stood across from him, unmoving as a stone. The faint hum of the air conditioner ruffled a strand of his hair, but his composure never cracked. Blindfold tight and posture straight, he looked more monk than mutant.

Sven chuckled, unable to resist. "Not even curious, eh? Man's been hiding a silver spoon in his mouth this whole time."

No response. Not even a twitch.

'He was never more than "the Phaser" to us,' Sven mused, eyes flicking to Isaac. The man sat calmly, chewing the last of his apple like nothing monumental had just been revealed. 'Now he's a mystery wrapped in a neat little suit. And apparently… a Fletcher. Who knew?'

Sven's mind flicked back to a little while back. 'Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I had a run-in with a Fletcher. That Baldy is probably his dad, but I doubt he remembers me. At least I hope not.'

Isaac wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sank deeper into the couch, exhaling quietly. The tension in his shoulders loosened just a touch. The phasing earlier - keeping them all alive through half a dozen near crashes and a rain of police bullets - had drained him. His temples still throbbed faintly from the strain.

But now, his old name had opened doors faster than his powers ever could. The luxury of corruption.

He didn't like it. Not one bit.

'Owing people is a habit I swore off,' he thought, eyes dulling as the past slithered up from the dark. 'Especially them.'

Still… he'd use the leash while it was offered. And when the time came, he'd cut it clean once again.

Sven was already miles ahead in his mind - plotting parties, schemes, and improbable heists across London rooftops. Takeshi's thoughts, as always, were far away, like still with Sayuri.

Isaac, though… his mind was a map of ghosts. Lies to tell. Faces to avoid. Names to erase.

Outside the lounge's glass window, the sky was clear as could be. A line of private jets stood like sleeping beasts under the noon sun. Inside, silence stretched - a rare, fragile thing among them.

Ten minutes of calm, each man lost in his own mind. That was until the attendant finally entered - polite, nervous, bowing just a little too low.

"Gentlemen, your jet is ready. If you'll follow me."

They rose. Everything that followed was swift, seamless, and efficient. No questions. No documents. No scrutiny. The staff bowed, smiled, and moved them along as if the air itself made way.

The world bent for them - all for the price of a name.

Even the guards who had regained consciousness didn't dare to glare at them, lowering their heads slightly.

Sven grinned as he walked, running his hand along the marble wall. "I can get used to this," he said under his breath. 'Rich fuckers really do get away with everything.'

He snorted at the thought. 'And come to think of it, aside from Nadya, I don't really know much about any of my so-called friends. I'm only just learning about the silent samurai and the fancy ghost...'

Then he shrugged, his grin returning. 'Ah, who cares?'

He stretched his arms and called out, "Time to eat grapes and drink wine in the air, baby!"

The attendants exchanged awkward smiles, probably wondering if this was a kidnapping or a celebrity tantrum. The jet waiting for them was massive - polished silver, sleek, and easily big enough for fifteen people.

Sven whistled low. "Now this is living."

As they climbed the steps, the distance was lit by the glare of red and blue. The faint blaring sirens could be heard as police cars swarmed the far end of the runway.

Takeshi's head tilted slightly.

Sven laughed. "They're a little late, don't you think?"

The engines roared. The jet surged forward, slicing through the sky. By the time the police reached the private terminal, it was too late - they were already airborne, climbing fast into the air.

If they had set off even a minute later, it likely would have been a different story.

For a few minutes, everything was tense and quiet. The seatbelt lights dimmed, and the faint hum of altitude filled the cabin.

Then a crackle came through the cockpit radio. "This is Romania Air Control. Private jet November-Three-Seven, you are ordered to turn around and land immediately. Repeat - you are ordered to turn around."

Sven's grin faded. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

He had been lingering near the cockpit, expecting something like this to happen. His daggers flashed into his hands with a flick. He pried the locked door open with one blade. The two pilots turned, startled.

"Listen here, you two," Sven said pleasantly, tapping one dagger against the frame. "If you want to keep your heads, just stay on course. Alright?"

They froze. The older pilot nodded so fast his headset nearly flew off.

"Good lads."

Sven smiled, then blitzed forward so fast it appeared to be instantaneous to the two men - there wasn't even a blur. He slashed at the dashboard, shredding every radio he could find into useless metal ribbons.

'Hopefully, I didn't cut anything important,' he prayed internally.

Sparks popped. The smell of burnt plastic filled the cabin.

"There. No distractions."

He sheathed his daggers, whistling as he strolled back out. He never liked killing. Not unless it was personal or profitable. This kind of threat was enough - it always was.

Minutes later, he'd somehow found a silk gown from the cabin's luxury closet, tossed it over his shoulders, and was flirting with both air hostesses at once while lounging across two seats.

"Sweetheart, tell me, do you pour wine this well for all your passengers?" he slurred, glass in hand.

The hostess forced a polite laugh. "Only the special ones, sir."

"That's what I like to hear." He downed the wine and waved at Isaac across the aisle. "You're the best, Isaac! Got a sister for me to marry? I'd even change my bloody name to Fletcher too!"

Isaac didn't even glance up. He was staring out the window, jaw tight, dreading what was to come. Each passing mile knotted his stomach tighter.

'They'll know I'm coming,' he thought. 'And if they don't, they will soon.'

Takeshi sat silently a few rows behind, katana across his knees, blindfold in place.

The minutes bled into hours, marked only by the quiet rumble of engines and Sven's growing intoxication. The cabin lights dimmed, the air turned cool, and London crept closer beneath the clouds.

By the time the captain announced descent, Sven was snoring softly under a blanket of luxury linen, wine glass still in hand. Isaac hadn't moved in an hour. Takeshi hadn't blinked.

And somewhere else, far from the comfort of private jets and vintage wine, their other companions weren't having it nearly as easy...

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