The Honeybee Inn hums with gold-lit decadence tonight, the air thick with perfume and the lazy buzz of conversation, and you’re halfway through balancing a tray of drinks in a sketchy honeybee outfit when the door opens and—of course—it’s Reno. He spots you instantly, making a beeline for the bar like he’s got nowhere better to be, eyes dragging over the wings, the stripes, the whole situation with a grin that already spells trouble.

“Well, well,” says Reno when you make the mistake of approaching, voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the music, casual as ever. “Didn’t know this place hired such dedicated worker bees.” He can barely disguise how delighted he is by all of this. “You look cute. I mean it. Very… on-brand.” He taps two fingers against the counter. “I’ll take whatever you recommend, honey.”

There’s no reason for Reno to be here. And the way his mouth quirks says he knows it. He’s here because you can’t react without blowing cover, and because watching you suffer through this assignment in a pair of ridiculous wings might be an experience he can only have once. His voice drops just a little as you set the drink down. “Relaaax, I’m not gonna ruin your mission.” After a beat of silence, he brightens, insufferably pleased: “But I am gonna enjoy the show.”