The fabric of the uniform felt stiff against my skin, too new, too crisp. I adjusted the collar for the third time, willing my nerves into submission. The polished brass wings pinned to my chest glinted under the fluorescent lights of the staff lounge. I had studied every protocol, memorized every safety procedure, and rehearsed the passenger announcements until my voice echoed in my dreams.

And yet, no manual could prepare me for the moment just before stepping into the cabin for the first time, not as a passenger, but as a steward.

I’m approaching the gate where the plane is docked.

I notice someone already there, with a small suitcase. The man was leaning against the doorway like he owned it, casual, confident, a half-smirk on his lips. Tousled ginger hair, flight cap tilted just enough to look like a rebel in uniform. His ID tag read Tartaglia, but the nickname embroidered above his chest said Childe. By his uniform I could tell that he is the pilot