A sea breeze, carrying the scent of salt and residual jet fuel, gently swept across the freshly repainted concrete runway on the outskirts of O'ahu Island, Hawaii. The sun had just begun to dip towards the west, gilding the horizon with sharp orange hues, as if God were spilling golden paint across the expanse of the Pacific. In the distance, small islands appeared like emerald green specks floating on a giant mirror.
Mateo Rossi stood at the threshold of hangar number seven, which now bore a new logo above its door: a silver wing protecting a heart, with the bold inscription beneath it. The Winged Justice. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a small towel already stained with oil. His rough hands, covered in new and old scars, held a wrench. Before him, an old Cessna Citation jet, exte
