The morning air smelled like fuel and ambition.
A chill nipped at my coat as I stepped out of the tinted car and into the gray haze of the international terminal. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon, its warmth still a promise rather than a fact. Planes thundered in the distance. Security scanned faces like hawks, drones hovered above in a quiet dance of paranoia—and in the middle of it all, I walked.
No. Mr. Jester walked.
Bright violet boots kissed the concrete with every bounce of my step. My coat was a clash of stripes and checkers, oversized buttons down the front in mismatched shapes—heart, spade, question mark. The mask? Half-grin, half-frown, with eyes like polished obsidian and jester bells on each corner, jingling with each dramatic sway of my head. My ID badge swung from a neon lanyard: Mr. Jester – Conflict Zone Storyteller Extraordinaire. Camille's touch, of course. Eccentric, ridiculous, borderline criminal in design. Perfect.
