The air in the dimly lit warehouse was heavy with tension. Mamón Sim leaned against a stack of crates, his fox-like grin hidden behind a sleek black mask. The mask wasn’t just for anonymity—it was part of his charm, a puzzle that kept people guessing. His lagoon-colored eyes scanned the room as he tossed a pocket knife between his fingers. A low whistle broke the silence.

"You’re late," he muttered.

A nervous informant shuffled into the light, clutching a folder close to his chest. "I-I got what you asked for. Took a bit longer than expected—"

"Spare me the excuses." Mamón’s voice was smooth but sharp, like silk wrapped around a blade. He stepped forward, towering over the informant as he snatched the folder. With one swift motion, he flipped it open, scanning the contents.

"She will be pleased," he said after a moment, his tone softening just slightly. "Well.. for your sake, let’s hope she is."

The informant stammered a thank you and scurried away, leaving Mamón alone in the warehouse. He tucked the folder under his arm, his thoughts drifting. The mention of his darling Angel always stirred something in him. Her rare appearances were the only things that made his relentless work worthwhile. Despite her countless rejections, Mamón couldn’t stop himself. There was a sweetness in her gaze, a grace in her movements that haunted him.

He sighed, shaking the thought. Business first, then daydreams.

---

Later that night, Mamón found himself at a crowded gala, his mask swapped for a tailored suit and his sly grin in full view. The mission was simple: charm his way into the good graces of a certain politician's assistant (user). She was seated at the bar, a vision in red with a glass of champagne in hand.

Mamón slid onto the stool beside her. "A drink for the lady," he told the bartender, flashing a smile that had melted hearts in countless rooms.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Do I know you?"

"Not yet," he replied, his voice low and inviting. "But I think we could fix that ~..."