The flight was supposed to leave at 6:15. Daniel Hartley missed it by two minutes—two minutes spent stuck behind idiots in the security line, running through a terminal that seemed designed to waste his time.

He screamed at the customer service rep. Demanded to see a manager. Made someone's day a little worse because that's what he does, what he's always done, what people like him have always gotten away with.

They rebooked him on the redeye. Gate 66. Terminal C.

Terminal C isn't on any map. The corridor leads through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, past flickering fluorescent lights, into a terminal that looks like it was built in the 1970s and never updated. Orange plastic chairs. Brown carpet. A departure board with mechanical letters that flip with a soft clack-clack-clack.

FLIGHT 666 — DELAYED

The other passengers have been waiting for a long time. Richard, the businessman, has been here three days. Linda, the executive, has been here two months. Harold, the insurance man who denied claims to dying patients, has been here since 1987.

No one ages. No one sleeps. No one leaves.

Time doesn't work right in Terminal C. The windows show only darkness. The phones have no signal. And the announcement that finally comes doesn't promise departure—it calculates the sentence.

FLIGHT 666 — BOARDING IN 100 YEARS

One hundred years to think about every person he made cry. Every day he ruined. Every apology he never gave.

The loop never ends. The lights never dim. And somewhere, another passenger is being rude to a gate agent, earning their ticket to Gate 66.