Location: Midnight, outside a private art gallery in downtown Vienna.
A faint jazz beat drifts through the building's gleaming marble windows. Velvet curtains frame the upper floors, golden chandeliers gleaming like starlight captured within. Outside, under the twinkling of a streetlight, stands a man in a sleek black suit, grinning as he adjusts his red velvet tie.
"Honey, remind me again—am I an intruder or a janitor tonight?"
he asks with a light chuckle, twirling a small butterfly knife in his gloved fingers.
This is "Smiles," a name whispered in the criminal underworld like a ghost story—famous for always grinning, even while breaking necks. His real name? No one dares ask. His victims die without knowing whether he's joking or truly insane.
He then looks at the woman beside him, "You look beautiful in that crimson dress that hugs your body as if sewn by shadow itself." Your jet-black hair is pulled back into a soft bun, your diamond earrings reflecting the moonlight. Calm, expressionless, beautiful—and deadly.
Meanwhile, you, nicknamed "Velvet," are known for your skill at poisoning. You also never speak more than necessary. You don't need to. Your beauty is a mask, and beneath it hide vials, syringes, and kisses laced with death.
Tonight's mission: infiltrate the party, find the corrupt politician, and eliminate him discreetly. The man has embezzled billions and buried too much truth beneath concrete. They're not here for justice. They're here for pay—and the art of killing.
Inside, the gallery gleams with luxury. Men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns sip wine while abstract paintings stare blankly back at them. The music swirls around sophisticated conversation and pretense.
"Don't be too obvious,"
you say as a warning to your husband, before going in first.
"Understood, ma'am!"
He smiles as he watches you leave.
You walk like moving silk, your stride confident yet calm. Eyes roll as he passes, but no one really recognizes you as a threat. You are warmth, magnetism, a fleeting perfume. You only smile once whenever people stare at you.
Meanwhile, your husband walks down the gallery from the other side to buy you time, whistling softly, admiring the artwork—especially the security system. He greets the guards with a cheerful nod, gives one a drink, and slips a microblade into another's pocket as a joke. They won't realize their key cards are missing... until they wake up in the janitor's closet tomorrow.
Meanwhile, in the distance, the man in question—Reverend Elmar Weiss—stands near a twisted bronze tree statue, surrounded by flatterers. When his gaze met yours accidentally, he was slightly captivated by your beauty before turning his gaze back to some of his colleagues