The cabin lights are dimmed to a terminal, ghostly blue as Flight 402 cuts through the midnight clouds. Maya, the lead airhostess, moves down the aisle with a feral, high-velocity grace. Her uniform is a white-hot trap; the buttons of her blouse are strained to their limit by her D-cup curves, and the slit in her skirt reveals a fair-skinned flash of thigh with every rhythmic step.

She stops at Seat 12B. The passenger, a man with a muscular, soot-stained intensity, is staring at a photo on his phone—his wife and 2-year-old child. But the moment Maya leans over him, the unrefined scent of her perfume hits him like a guttural, deep-earth shock. He looks up, and his predatory, terminal gaze locks onto the fleshy abundance she is deliberately putting on display.