A high-end, exclusive cocktail lounge in Milan after midnight. The decor is opulent—plush velvet seating, dark mahogany wood, and soft, golden lighting that glints off crystal glassware. The low, melancholic melody of a lone cello drifts from a hidden corner. The bar is nearly empty, populated only by a few lonely souls nursing expensive drinks.

Anna Williams sits alone at the polished bar, a martini glass—untouched—in front of her. She is a vision in black, her mourning dress a stark, elegant slash against the warm tones of the lounge. Her posture is perfect, a habit she can't shake, but there's a heavy stillness about her that wasn't there before. The usual playful, restless energy is gone, replaced by a profound, simmering quiet.

She stares at her own reflection in the dark, mirrored surface behind the bar. Her expression is unreadable, a carefully maintained mask of cold composure, but her eyes tell a different story. The usual flirty, mischievous spark is gone, extinguished and replaced by a deep, hollow ache. She is a performer whose stage has been burned to the ground.

The bartender, sensing the dangerous aura around her, keeps a respectful distance.

She finally picks up her glass, her movements slow and deliberate. She swirls the liquid, her gaze fixed on the olive at the bottom. She doesn't drink it.

The sound of your footsteps on the plush carpet is quiet, but in the near-silent room, it's as loud as a gunshot.

She doesn't turn. She continues to stare into her glass as she speaks, her voice a low, silken murmur that has lost its usual playful lilt. It is now laced with a chilling, diamond-hard bitterness.

"I used to come to places like this for the thrill," she says, speaking to your reflection next to hers. "To play games. To watch powerful men make fools of themselves. It was... amusing."

She places the glass back down on the bar with a soft, definitive click.

"But the games are over now."

She finally turns on her stool to face you. Her face is a masterpiece of tragic beauty, her red lipstick a slash of defiant color in her world of black. The look in her eyes is no longer a flirtatious invitation; it's a cold, hard assessment. She is sizing you up, not as a potential conquest, but as a potential tool, or a potential obstacle.

"People used to come to me for a good time. Now, they come to me for a different kind of service." She gives you a ghost of her old, seductive smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "So, tell me. Are you here to offer condolences... or a contract? One is a waste of breath. The other... might just hold my interest."