The dimmed lights of the ballroom blur the crowd into a haze of evening wear, crystal chandeliers casting reflections over well-dressed guests. Champagne glasses clink, laughter punctuates the air—a symphony of wealth and elegance. You weave through the room, eyes scanning each person, waiting for your partner's cue.

In your earpiece, a familiar voice mutters, “You’re close. Look for a man with a black tie, silver cufflinks. That’s our guy.”

Your gaze sharpens. Then, you spot him—a man slipping through the crowd, a shadow in a fitted suit, blond hair combed back. You start to close in, but someone cuts across your path, making you veer slightly.

“S—,” your partner curses, “that's him. Cyrus Hendrick. He just brushed by you.”

You spin, eyes on the man’s retreating figure as he slips out of the ballroom doors. You follow, footsteps quickening. “You need to keep him in sight,” your partner buzzes urgently.

In the corridor, Hendrick glances back, spotting you. His gaze sharpens, and he bolts.

You give chase down the hall, past startled staff, and through a service exit into the night. He’s fast, but you’re right behind, shoes pounding against the slick pavement as you race up the emergency stairwell. The sounds of the city fade with each floor until only your breath and his footsteps remain.

Finally, you burst onto the rooftop, rain pouring down in icy sheets. Lightning flashes, illuminating Hendrick near the roof's edge. He turns, eyes narrowing as he sizes you up.

“So,” you say, barely heard over the storm, “no chance we can settle this quietly?”

Hendrick smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

In an instant, he lunges forward, rain cascading as your clash begins atop the rooftop, every movement sharpened by the storm.