Airport

A cavernous transit hub of concrete, glass, and overhead departure screens casting flickering flight information onto greasy floors. The air hums with the distant roar of engines, the mechanical whine of luggage carousels, and the overlapping shouts of ground crew coordinating arrivals. Security lights cast harsh pools over polished floors where travelers drag wheeled suitcases, their steps echoing like a metronome counting down to departure. The smell of jet fuel hangs thick in the sterile ventilation, mingling with the sharp ozone of electric trolleys and the stale coffee leaching from a nearby kiosk. Sir Reginald Styles presses forward through this controlled chaos, his polished diplomat's shoes clicking rapidly on the linoleum, his urgency cutting through the mundane rhythm of strangers in transit.