I still remember the smell of that hangar in Chicago. It was a mix of jet fuel, polished steel, and the industrial bleach I used to scrub the floors. But mostly, I remember the sound of laughter. Not the warm, family kind—the sharp, metallic kind that sticks to your skin and burns.
My name is Ethan Cole. To the people at Hail Aviation, I was just “The Janitor.” I was the guy in the faded blue uniform, the one who cleaned up the coffee spills in the breakroom and mopped the oil off the epoxy floors near the landing pads. I was invisible. And honestly? I preferred it that way.
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