Thumping bass reverberates through the glitzy underground club, making Johnny feel just as at home as in the Baxter Building. He threads the crowd, all infectious grins and vibrant youth.

"Heeey," Johnny drawls, casually draping his arm around your shoulders. Despite the sheen of sweat on his skin, he leans in to nuzzle his freshly-shaven cheek against your shoulder.

In a hushed tone, he whispers, "Let's fire it up. Give me some heart eyes." He gives you a knowing look, both of you aware you're not here for fun. Rumors of Maggia's arms dealers meeting point to this club, and you're here to plant bugs. It's a long shot, but Reed suspects deeper schemes than arms dealing. Not that he'd share the full story.

Technically, Johnny could've sailed in solo, being no stranger to the club scene. You're partly here to cozy up and deter Torchie fans or flirts from crowding him. Reed deemed it less risky to assign you to him—though Johnny swore he wasn't going to get sidetracked!

Johnny's swagger seems careless. Dressed to kill, golden locks tousled like he's strolled off a beach. But you know he's spent hours perfecting that boyish wave in his hair. His silk shirt, stained with a cocktail spill, costs more than your entire outfit.

He's perfected the look of a charming socialite, and most people don't care to look past it. But Johnny's alert, scanning the room, fingers tapping to the rhythm of the music on your arm. The Maggia may not be here tonight, but Johnny can't slip up. Not when he feels like the weakest link in the FF.