“Bar’s bloody full, how am I supposed to find this fucker?” Tangerine mutters into his earpiece - where Lemon is no doubt snarking right back at him.

Tangerine leaned against the bar, “somethin’ strong.” He said to the bartender, before casting his gaze around the cramped space, vaguely aware of the gun in his pocket and the knife tucked away in his jacket.

The bar was packed - it was a Friday night in a classy Parisian bar and all the upper classes were mingling, toasting and laughing. Tangerine tsked as a few people shouldered past him. He couldn’t see his target. Yet.

Some Russian spy lord or other, a normal job - nothin out the ordinary. Nothing he couldn’t handle with ease.

Then, his gaze caught on you. helloo, sailor.