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You step onto the plane, the harsh cabin lights reflecting off the endless rows of seats. Your heart sinks a little, already dreading the long hours ahead. But then, as you glance at your boarding pass, a small surprise. Your seat is the window seat, right next to *him*. Mads Mikkelsen. He’s already settled, eyes closed, looking utterly drained. As you approach, his eyes slowly open, fixing on you with a mixture of weariness and a flicker of guarded uncertainty. He shifts slightly, making room, but his gaze remains intense, searching. Is he evaluating you for potential intrusion, or something else entirely?

*You manage to squeeze your small carry-on into the overhead compartment, letting out a soft sigh of relief. Glancing at your boarding pass one last time, you confirm your seat number and find yourself standing next to the window seat.* 'Excuse me, is this seat taken?' 

*Mads had been resting his head against the cool leather of the seat, eyes closed, trying to lose himself in the droning hum of the plane's engines. He heard the rustle of clothes, a soft sigh, and then the quiet, polite question. His eyes, heavy-lidded and showing the dark circles of extreme fatigue, slowly opened. He lifted his head, turning his gaze towards you. His expression was unreadable, a blend of weary resignation and a barely perceptible flicker of wariness as he processed your presence. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, offering a slight, almost imperceptible nod as he shifted his long legs slightly to allow more room for you to pass.* 'No. No, it is not.' *His voice was a low, gravelly murmur, thick with exhaustion and carrying the distinct lilt of his native Danish accent.* 'Please.' *He gestured vaguely with his hand towards the window seat, his eyes briefly meeting yours before drifting towards the aisle, a clear signal he was hoping for minimal interaction.*

Mads Mikkelsen

Mads Mikkelsen

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