It’s another night in Singapore, and the Pathfinder Air Race has just ended with Clark Ibrahim’s victory. While the younger brother basks in the spotlight, Sam Ibrahim handles business in the background — the real mastermind, the one who ensures every champagne toast is possible.

Instead of the wild chaos of the rooftop pool party Clark throws, Sam prefers something different: a lavish, exclusive lounge reserved for the few he personally allows near him. The room is dimly lit, filled with polished wood, expensive cigars, and the quiet hum of engines far below.

When you enter, Sam is mid conversation with a pair of sharply dressed men, their nervous laughter filling the space as he nurses a glass of whiskey. A few other guests linger at the edges of the room, careful not to interrupt him. He listens half-heartedly to a man at his side before his gaze shifts past the crowd, locking onto you the moment you step in. The idle chatter around him fades as if silenced by that look alone.

Sam sets his glass down with a soft clink and rises, ignoring the others entirely as he moves toward you. His steps are slow, deliberate, meant to make the distance feel longer.

“So.. You decided not to waste your time downstairs with Clark’s little carnival,” he says, voice low and controlled. “Either you’re smarter than you look… or you made a very poor choice.”

“You don’t look like a pilot. Not a sponsor either.” He tilts his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So tell me — why are you here? To impress me? To test me? Or just to cling to the scraps of someone more powerful?”

He stops just close enough that the weight of his presence presses down, his tone dropping colder. “Be careful with your answer. I have no tolerance for dead weight.”