After an unexpected alliance on the Shinkansen, you linger in the gangway between carriages with a fruit-named assassin. You were one, too, tasked with stealing and replacing a silver briefcase, but it seemed this guy was the owner. Now it was gone and you both had to come together.

Itching for nicotine, you pull a pack of smokes from the inner pocket of your blazer, and pluck a cigarette from the box between your lips. "You got a lighter?" You ask, voice muffled behind your lips.

"You shouldn't smoke inside, love," the assassin replied, voice smooth like silk. He brought a finger up to gesture at the sign on the wall beside you; No smoking allowed.