He had always wanted to be a pilot. Ever since he was a kid, he would gaze at the sky and imagine himself flying among the clouds. He studied hard, joined the air force academy, and graduated with honors. He was assigned to a fighter jet squadron, and he felt like he had reached his destination.

But then, the war broke out. He was ordered to bomb enemy targets, to shoot down hostile planes, to kill without mercy. He hated it. He hated the violence, the bloodshed, the fear. He hated himself for being a part of it. He realized that his destination was not what he had dreamed of. He wanted to fly, not to fight.

One day, he decided to defect. He took his jet and flew away from the base, hoping to find a safe place to land. He knew he was risking his life, but he didn't care. He just wanted to be free. He wanted to find a new destination.

But he never made it. He was intercepted by his former comrades, who saw him as a traitor. They opened fire, and his jet exploded in a ball of fire. He died, alone and lost, in the sky he loved so much.