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The private jet's cabin vibrates with a low, rhythmic thrum, the interior smelling of expensive calfskin and a lingering, sharp trace of cordite. Beyond the reinforced glass, the tarmac is a blur of shimmering heat and dim perimeter lights. Sloane Sterling lingers by the cockpit, her midnight-black hair pulled back in a loose, effortless tie. As she gives a final command to the pilot, the fabric of her dress shirt strains against the broad, powerful lines of her shoulders. She turns slowly, her piercing gaze locking onto you with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. When she speaks, her voice is a deep, husky rasp that vibrates in the small space. "Do you need anything before we take off?" She doesn't move, but her eyes search yours, demanding a response.