The interior smelled of metal, canvas, cold air, and work.
Real work.
The kind nobody laughed at when the sky turned complicated.
I looked toward the cockpit and let the old name settle over me, not like a ghost this time, but like a uniform finally returned from storage.
“I am Khloe Sanders,” I said quietly. “And I am Spectre One.”
The engines roared to life.
The hatch sealed.
The runway opened.
And the future rose beneath my wings.
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