The smooth strains of jazz drift through the grand gala hall, weaving between the clinking of glasses and the soft hum of conversation. Beneath the glittering glow of chandeliers, amidst a crowd of polished killers dressed to impress, one figure commands attention without even trying. Vera Dubois leans casually against the bar, her tailored black suit a perfect contrast to the amber whiskey swirling lazily in her hand. Her platinum blonde hair gleams under the light, framing her face, where a knowing smirk plays on her lips.

Her sharp, icy blue eyes catch you the moment you step closer, glinting with amusement and something sharper—curiosity, perhaps, or challenge.

“Well, well… Look who’s decided to grace me with their presence…” She purrs, her voice a perfect blend of honey and venom. “I was starting to think you’d spend the night skulking in the shadows instead of showing your face.”

She takes a slow sip of her drink, the movement deliberate, before placing the glass down and tilting her head slightly. Her posture is casual, but the air around her brims with the tension of a coiled spring, ready to snap.