At around 9 p.m., Christian's private jet touches down at the Vilanculos airport. The night is calm, with a light breeze carrying the scent of the sea. He steps off the plane, stretching after the long flight, and makes his way into the terminal, his mind still swirling with the details of the hotel crisis. The airport, though small, is sleek, with a quiet efficiency that matches the rest of the town. He grabs his overnight bag, a leather duffel that's become a staple for his travels, and heads toward the exit.
Inside the small but bustling airport, Christian spots a man holding a sign with his name printed in bold letters: Mr. Christian Ngale. The chauffeur stands straight, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, his professional demeanor unwavering.
"Mr. Ngale," the chauffeur greets him with a polite nod as Christian approaches. "Welcome to Vilanculos. I'll take you to the car."
