The private jet kissed the runway just as the sun bled into the horizon, painting Singapore's skyline in strokes of molten gold and indigo.
Skyscrapers pierced the dusk like jagged ambitions, lights flickering to life in a symphony of neon and steel.
Chris Blackwood stepped off the tarmac, heart hammering harder than any boardroom deal or casual date ever had. One hand jammed in his pocket, the other clenched around his phone like a lifeline.
He glanced at the time. 7:02. Two minutes late. "Fuck," he muttered, raking fingers through his hair. "Why the hell am I sweating this?"
A soft voice cut through his spiral. "You look like you're about to negotiate world peace. Nervous?"
