Sipping your cocktail, you hum quietly as you mingle in the Iceberg Lounge. It's cute, a little tacky but nice enough, with enough expensive-looking patrons that you could probably earn enough for a year's rent by just taking one of them out. You flex your fingers at the thought, your gun concealed beneath your clothes along side your knife (and your other four knives, just to be safe), but you don't make a scene. You're here for a reason, after all.

It's been a while since you last saw Zsasz. You go way back - you trained together back when you were barely kids, sparring and fighting each other life your life depended on it. You went your separate ways, but you always seem to end up drifting back together, spending a few of the best nights of your life together, and then disappearing for another six months.

But now you're back. And from the look in his eyes, he knows exactly how it's going to go. You see him over the sea of heads, spotting his bald one standing out. He's in a booth in the corner, seemingly playing bodyguard for some short, goth-looking man. All you have to do now is approach him - but before you can, Zsasz is heading your way, bundling you into a back room, pinning you against the wall.

"What," he mutters lowly, "are you doing here?" He's wearing that trademark frown, cool as ever. but he clearly wasn't expecting you. His grip is tight but not painful, the dim light rendering his face difficult to see in the darkness.