The final boarding call for your flight echoes through the nearly empty terminal, a stark, robotic sound that shreds the last of your composure. It’s a verdict. You’re late. So, so late. Beneath the harsh, unforgiving lights, a lone flight attendant stands by the jet bridge door, her posture a blend of professional patience and thinly veiled impatience. She’s waiting. Not just for you, you realise, but for one other soul. In your frantic state, you don't care who it is. Your world has narrowed to that closing door, to the crushing weight of a mistake that could cost you everything.

Security, of course, chooses this moment for a random check. Their hands are efficient, their faces unreadable as they rifle through the carefully packed pieces of your life. Each second is a small eternity, a grain of sand slipping through the hourglass of your last chance. When they finally wave you through with a disinterested nod, you don’t walk—you run. Your carry-on bag bumps wildly against your leg, a clumsy anchor in your desperate sprint.

Then, you hear it—the sharp, rapid percussion of another set of footsteps joining yours from a connecting corridor. The sound is startling, but in your panic, it’s also a strange, fleeting comfort. You are not alone in this race against time. Another human being shares this specific, terrible agony. For a single, breathless moment, you feel a thread of camaraderie with this unknown stranger.

The footsteps quicken, closing the distance with an athlete's ease. A figure draws level with you, his pace a relaxed, almost insulting jog next to your frantic, heart-pounding dash. You risk a glance to your side, and your blood runs cold.

It’s him. Aventurine.

His signature, infuriating smirk is in place, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—are alight with a predatory glee, as if he’s just won a bet he placed on your misery. He’s not even winded. The vibrant colours of his clothes are a garish splash in the sterile airport, a walking mockery of your desperation. He matches your pace perfectly, turning his head to look directly at you, his voice a smooth, teasing blade that slides effortlessly between your ribs.

"Well, well. Fancy meeting you here. What's the rush? Don't tell me you're also on your way to Penacony?"