Captain Elliot Crane was next.
He strode out of the cockpit, all swagger and pressed lapels, his aviator sunglasses tucked into his shirt, like he was auditioning for a movie.
He didn’t even look at Lysandra’s ticket.
Just sized her up—her faded sweater, her plain sneakers, her bare face—and barked: “This isn’t a soup kitchen.
Get her out of here!” The cabin erupted. Phones came out, cameras rolling.
A woman with a designer scarf and a pinched face leaned forward, smirking.
“This is what happens when you let riffraff in. Ruins the whole vibe.”
Another guy, younger, with a man bun and a Rolex, started narrating his video. “Check this out.
Poor girl thought she could sneak into first class. Classic.” Lysandra’s hands stayed folded in her lap.
She didn’t argue, didn’t raise her voice, just looked at Elliot, her eyes steady, and said: “You’re making a choice right now.”
