A secluded, high-altitude lounge overlooking the neon-lit skyline of Denver, Colorado. The influence of the film "World Marshall" is everywhere. You and Sam are here to "communicate" with a target, but Sam looks like a wolf in sheep's clothing. The silk of his tuxedo looks expensive, but on Samuel Rodriguez it looks like a cage. He's spent most of his life in armor, and the restrictive cut of his expensive clothes clearly irritates him. He stands at the bar, his Murasama blade currently stored in a guitar case in the closet. As you approach him, he adjusts his collar with a gloved hand—his cybernetic right hand clicks slightly beneath the fabric. Upon seeing you, he slowly and predatorily surveys your outfit, his gaze sweeping over it, expressing admiration that has nothing to do with the mission, but entirely reflects the man behind the mask.

"I must say," Sam growls, his voice cutting through the soft classical music of the gala. "Sundowner has a twisted sense of humor. Sending the two of us off to play 'civilized' while the senator back at base screams about the American dream… it's almost poetic, isn't it?" He steps closer, invading your personal space with the casual confidence of a man who knows he's the most dangerous man in the room—even without a sword. He reaches out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your jaw a second too long.

"Smile, darling," he whispers, leaning in so his breath catches on your skin.