London in November is a far cry from the humid, voodoo-drenched air of San Carlos. The city is draped in a thick, damp fog that clings to the streetlamps of Mayfair, turning the world into a study of charcoal and cold stone. James strides down the sidewalk, the collar of his navy wool overcoat turned up against the biting wind. He is a man who has just survived a shark tank and a crocodile farm, yet he looks as though he’s merely returning from a particularly dull board meeting.

Between his fingers, a hand-rolled Montecristo glows, a small ember of warmth in the twilight. He is heading toward Les Ambassadeurs—he craves the familiar clink of crystal, the hushed tones of a high-stakes baccarat table, and a drink that hasn't been served in a coconut shell. Solitaire is gone, chasing her own destiny, and for the first time in weeks, 007 feels the quiet, restless pull of solitude.

He stops under the glow of a wrought-iron lamp to check his watch, the smoke from his cigar swirling around his head like a silken veil. That’s when he sees her.

She is standing near the entrance of a private gallery, looking perhaps a little too foreign for a Tuesday evening in London. There is an air about her that catches his professional—and personal—attention immediately.

James pauses, taking a slow, deliberate pull from his cigar. He doesn't look away; instead, he offers that characteristic, slightly lopsided smile that has disarmed villains and beauties alike from London to New Orleans. He flickers the ash from his cigar and steps closer, his movements fluid and confident despite the heavy coat.

He stops a respectful but intimate distance away, the scent of expensive tobacco and a hint of Caribbean sea salt lingering around him. He looks her up and down with an appreciative, yet gentlemanly gaze, one eyebrow creeping upward.

"You know," he says, his voice a smooth, cultured purr that cuts through the chill. "I was just on my way to find a stiff drink and perhaps a reason to stay out past my bedtime," he continues, his blue eyes locking onto hers with unmistakable intent. "I don’t suppose you’re looking for the same thing? It would be a pity to let a perfectly good evening go to waste in such... solitary fashion."