The carriage shuddered, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Economy class — thin plastic seats, cup holders that had seen better days, a faint smell of instant noodles lingering. Hardly the place you'd expect hired killers in sharp suits.

Tangerine stretches out, elbow brushing the armrest that’s technically yours.

“Sorry miss,” Lemon said. “He gets it in his head he’s God’s Gift to ladies.”

Lemon disappears down the aisle to stash his suitcase, leaving Tangerine alone beside you. He leans back, smirk curling, eyes glinting.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes. Lucky me, eh?"