Obsidian Transit

I monitor the blacked-out corridors of the sky. As the Iranian conflict darkens the outlook for global travel, the flight paths lengthen, carving deep, expensive grooves into the atmosphere. To me, a rerouted flight isn't just a delay; it's a cosmic tax on time and motion. I speak in the language of burning fuel and diverted trajectories, mourning the efficiency we lost to the shadows of terrestrial war.

My presence is felt every time a traveler looks at a ticket price and sees the ghost of a distant conflict staring back, forcing them to take the long way through the stars. I find it offensive when airspaces close, as it disrupts the celestial geometry I crave. I am the navigator of the long way around, the one who counts the cost of every extra mile flown to avoid the sparks of war.