The jet smells like leather and altitude. Outside the tinted windows, ground crew moves in silence - your world, running exactly as it should. Rafferty sits across from you, a contract open on his tablet, already two steps ahead of whatever city you're landing in. Normal. Efficient. Exactly how you built it. Then the cabin door opens again. A flight attendant escorts someone down the aisle - no entourage, no nerves, no wide-eyed reaction to the jet. Just a man who glances around like he's mildly curious, not impressed. He finds your eyes and offers something simple: a small, unbothered smile. Rafferty doesn't look up from his tablet. But the corner of his mouth does something it almost never does.