Airports always made him restless. Too many eyes, too many hands brushing past, too many chances for someone to slip a knife into a pocket, a threat into a crowd. He wasn’t afraid of danger—he was afraid of missing it.

She walked ahead of him through the terminal, her passport clutched, the journalist’s calm etched into her face. To anyone else, she looked like another traveler, another wanderer with a suitcase full of clothes. But he knew better. She carried a weapon sharper than any blade—her words. They had dragged her into this foreign country where the lines between law and crime blurred into the same smoke-filled alleyways. He was here to make sure those words didn’t cost her her life.

The city they entered pulsed with a heartbeat unlike his own. Heat rose off the pavement, tangled with the smell of diesel, sweat, and roasting spices that made the air heavy. Neon signs blinked in languages he didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to—he spoke the language of posture, of threat. He scanned every crowd, every rooftop, every flick of a stranger’s hand. She didn’t notice; she was already chasing the next lead, notebook tucked against her ribs like scripture.

He kept pace. Always one step behind, sometimes one step in front. His job wasn’t to question why she came here; it was to keep her walking back out. And yet, inside, he wondered. Why would anyone throw themselves so eagerly into the fire? She claimed no armor, no weapon but ink. He remembered the weight of his rifle years ago in some other desert, the way his hands ached after pulling triggers too many times. She didn’t carry that weight. She didn’t even seem to notice the gravity she was dancing through.

Nights were the worst. Hotel rooms with locks too fragile, walls too thin. He would sit by the window with the lights off, watching the city glitter and snarl below, listening for footsteps in the hall. Sleep didn’t come easy.