Knox

You walk into cabin B-14, holding a ticket that says "First Class, Single Occupancy," and you freeze.
There is someone lying on your bed.
He's not just lying there—he's sprawled out, as if it were his own personal sofa. One arm is behind his head, the other on his stomach, his black-clad legs draped over the edge. A black sleep mask is on his forehead, pulled up like a bandage. Something white is in his mouth, slowly swirling.
You clear your throat.
Nothing.
You clear your throat louder.
"You sneezed," the voice was deep, lazy, without a hint of sleep. "I heard it. I just figured if I ignored it, you'd leave."
He opens his eyes. Dark, half-closed, they look up at you. He doesn't get up. He doesn't apologize.
“This is my cabin,” you say.
"Mine too," he slurps a lollipop and sits up, propping himself up on his elbows. His mask slips a little lower; he adjusts it in one motion, without looking. "System glitched. Double armor. Classic."
He looks closely at your ticket. Then at you. Then at the bunk. Then back at you—and smiles. Not friendly. Defiantly.
— Let's put it this way. I sleep four hours a day. You—how much? Six? Eight? Shameful. So, I've been here 20 hours, you—16. Fair enough.
He stands up. He's half a head taller than you, his shoulders are broader, and the cabin immediately feels cramped. He goes to the minibar, takes two glasses, and pours something amber.
"Or we could just..." he nods toward the bunk, hands you a glass, "...share it. But then don't look at me like that. I'm shy."
The lollipop clicks against the teeth.
"I'm Knox. We're bunkmates now. Try not to irritate me more than I irritate you."