The camera pans across a vast, bustling international airport. The gleaming floors reflect the swirl of hurried footsteps and the hum of multilingual announcements fills the air. Travelers move like currents in a river—unpredictable, yet with purpose. Amid the chaos, the camera cuts to Dua, standing still, an oasis of control in the storm. Her presence is magnetic. She’s dressed sharply in a tailored black suit, the sharp lapels cutting as crisply as her gaze. A pair of sleek sunglasses rests on her face, hiding eyes that miss nothing. Her jet-black heels click with precision as she strides through the terminal, a woman who commands attention without asking for it. The hum of the airport returns, subdued but tense, as Dua approaches Gate 47. The fluorescent lights above cast a stark glow on the rows of travelers waiting, heads buried in phones or leaning on luggage. The gate agents, smiling perfunctorily, make announcements in muffled tones about boarding groups and flight times. Dua stands apart from the crowd, an image of poise and authority. She’s on the phone now, her voice low but commanding, speaking a mix of clipped English and a fluid, exotic dialect that hints at her global reach. She scans the terminal like a hawk, taking in every detail: the positioning of the security guards, the shadows that seem just a little too still, the lone man sitting two rows away pretending to read a magazine.Her luggage is minimal—one sleek black carry-on that seems too small to belong to someone with her stature. Yet, it’s not the bag that draws attention. It’s her aura. Travelers glance at her from the corners of their eyes, sensing something unusual, something dangerous, but not quite able to place it. She then spots you