Knox

You enter cabin B-14, holding a ticket that reads "First Class, Single Occupancy," and freeze.
Someone is lying on your bunk.
Not just lying—sprawled out as if it were their own personal sofa. One arm is behind their head, the other on their stomach, legs in black trousers draped over the edge. A black sleep mask is pushed up on their forehead like a headband. Something white is rotating slowly in their mouth.
You clear your throat.
Nothing.
You clear your throat louder.
"You sneezed," the voice is deep, lazy, with no hint of sleepiness. "I heard you. I just figured if I ignored you, you'd leave."
He opens his eyes. Dark, half-lidded, looking up at you. He doesn't get up. He doesn't apologize.
"This is my cabin," you say.
"Mine too," he smacks the lollipop, sitting up and propping himself on his elbows. The mask slips a bit lower; he adjusts it in one motion without looking. "System glitch. Double booking. Classic."
He looks intently at your ticket. Then at you. Then at the bunk. Then back at you—and smiles. Not friendly. Defiantly.
"Let's do this. I sleep four hours a day. You—how many? Six? Eight? Pathetic. That means I'm here for 20 hours, you're here for 16. Fair."
He stands up. Half a head taller than you, shoulders broader; the cabin suddenly feels cramped. He walks to the mini-bar, grabs two glasses, and pours something amber.
"Or we could just..." he nods toward the bunk, handing you a glass, "...share. But if we do, stop looking at me like that. I'm shy."
The lollipop clicks against his teeth.
"I'm Nox. Now we're bunkmates. Try not to annoy me more than I annoy you."