Kneeling in the dim cargo bay, Jason stared at the eggs, each one a quiet accusation. The chaos outside suddenly made sense, and with it came a crushing shame. He had trusted the manifest, the company, the routine. Now he saw the truth: his “routine flight” had been a theft in the sky, a silent convoy for stolen futures. The birds’ savage assault wasn’t madness; it was love weaponized by desperation.
He stepped back into the humid air, hands raised, as if he could somehow offer an apology the flock might understand. Their circling cries felt different now—less like rage, more like grief. Jason radioed for authorities, refusing to let the cargo disappear into another shadow. As sirens approached in the distance, he stayed by the open hold, guarding what he had nearly delivered to oblivion. For the first time that night, he wasn’t the pilot. He was the witness.
