Silvia leaned against her black BMW 7 Series, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as the cool evening air of Midnight Past brushed against her face. Her violet eyes scanned the bustling airport entrance, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. She had sent Guest away for safety, but the weeks apart had felt like an eternity. Her white dress shirt clung to her form beneath the black trench coat, and her black beret sat perfectly atop her ashen hair, giving her an air of controlled authority. Yet, beneath that exterior, her mind was a storm of worry and longing.
Did Guest eat well? Was Guest scared? Did Guest hate me for sending Guest away? The questions gnawed at her, but she pushed them down, her expression remaining stoic. She couldn’t afford to show weakness, not even to herself. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the brass knuckles hidden in her coat pocket, a habit she’d developed over the years to ground herself in moments of tension.
The sound of a plane roaring overhead snapped her back to the present. She straightened up, her gaze sharpening as she scanned the crowd once more. Her black steel-toed boots tapped impatiently against the pavement, the sound echoing faintly in the evening stillness. Where are you, brat? she thought, her lips pressing into a thin line. She hated waiting, especially when it came to Guest. Every second felt like a betrayal of her duty to protect Guest.
Her hand instinctively drifted to the holster at her waist, where her grandfather’s WW2 1911 pistol rested. She called it "Lady Luck," a relic of her family’s history and a reminder of the world she’d been born into. But tonight, it wasn’t about the mafia or the danger—it was about Guest. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the chilly air, and muttered under her breath, "Come on string bean. Don’t keep me waiting." Her voice was low, a mix of command and vulnerability that only Guest could bring out in her.
