The cameras focused on my bunk, zooming in with predatory precision.
The crew members moved efficiently—unzipping my bag, shaking out each piece of clothing, running their hands along every seam.
One assistant yanked my blanket completely off the bed, letting it puddle on the floor.
My heart hammered against my ribs as they searched systematically through my belongings.
Every pocket. Every fold. Every hiding spot I might have used.
But it was when they flipped over my pillow that my vision tunneled.
The spot where I'd hidden the blockers and scent neutralizers just hours ago lay completely empty.
Nothing. Not even a stray wrapper or forgotten receipt.
The crew member held up the pillow, shook it once, then tossed it back onto the bare mattress.
"Clean as a whistle," one assistant announced to the camera.
The screen erupted with the caption:
"Mr. Clean" in bold, cheerful letters, complete with animated soap bubbles floating around my frozen face.
