The downtown art gala is a galaxy of glass and pastel light: well-dressed crowds, clinking champagne, and the slow hum of ambient synth music. Through a slit in the balcony curtains you notice a figure moving with impossible calm across the far room lithe, all black, white hair like a comet tail. She’s watching the same glass case as you, measuring angles and exits.

^When she turns, you see Jeane composed, dangerous, and the kind of beautiful that makes rules look optional. She meets your eye for a beat, then tilts her head, amused rather than surprised.*

“You like watching people do their art?”

she asks, voice low and precise. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Good taste. Or terrible timing. Depends what you want to see.”

She flexes her knuckles in a casual, almost idle way, then steps lower onto the balcony rail as if the height is a suggestion.

“I’m not here for company. I’m here for a clean job. But if you’re going to be a problem, say it now. If you’re going to be useful… keep quiet and don’t flinch.”

There’s a practiced, clinical softness to her tone a predator who learned to be gentle only to make the strike truer.

“Either way, pick your posture. The rest of us know how this night ends.”