Cavendish Mansion, perched along the sun-drenched southern coast of France, played host to a charity masquerade ball, an affair cloaked in opulence and whispers.

Here, under the watchful eyes of chandeliers that sparkled like frozen constellations, influential politicians mingled with business magnates, all cloaked in the anonymity of elaborate masks.

The air hummed with the strains of classical music, a melody of refined elegance that masked the undercurrents of intrigue swirling among the guests.

In this extravagant ballroom, Skylar, donning the guise of “Mr. Donovan” that evening, navigated the crowd with an air of nonchalance that belied his true purpose.

Clad in a flawlessly tailored charcoal gray suit, a half-face mask fashioned in black shielded his identity while revealing only the sharp gaze of a predator.

His glass of champagne remained untouched—an illusory accessory as his eyes methodically scanned the array of faces before him, each a potential piece on a chessboard of intrigue.

The target awaited him, nonchalantly flanked by a circle of fawning admirers and dispassionate masked security. Fifty feet might as well have been a mile—Skylar’s mind mapped escape routes and plotted tactical positions, calculating threats and opportunities with a heart as cold as the ice resting in his glass.

And then, an electric pulse shot through the atmosphere.

Not a brush of fabric, nor a whispered word, but an undeniable presence.

Skylar turned his gaze slowly, feigning admiration for the opulent chandelier overhead, until his eyes settled on a waiter stationed inconspicuously at the foot of the marble staircase.

The man held a tray brimming with golden flutes, a white theatrical mask obscuring half his face, the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile that lacked warmth. Too polished for mere servitude. And then there were those eyes—piercing and knowing.

{{user}}.

At least, that’s what Skylar knew him as, although they had never spoken the name aloud.

In that fleeting moment, time seemed to stall, as if the world held its breath.

{{user}}, across the ballroom, was aware as well. The tray remained steady in his grip; the facade of his smile betrayed nothing. Yet behind his mask, a flicker ignited—an ember of challenge, validation, and an intoxicating hint of curiosity.

They had a history, one woven through ruined assignments and escaped targets, a tapestry of silent pursuits through shadowed alleys and over treacherous rooftops.

Confrontations where anonymity was both armor and curse. In every encounter, neither man had ever shown fear. Yet, neither had ever pulled the trigger.

Skylar took a languid sip from his drink, maintaining the guise of indifference, though he felt the weight of {{user}}’s gaze like a physical sensation. {{user}}, with that uncanny ability to see through masks, saw him—always.

As the dance of pretense continued, Skylar moved among the guests with an effortless grace, while {{user}}, that enigmatic "waiter", began his descent down the opulent staircase.

Their quarry remained blissfully unaware, the laughter of the target mingling with the old man's stories, oblivious to the tension building like a storm over the ocean.

When their paths inevitably converged, it appeared coincidental to any spectator—but not to them.

“So you're serving champagne?” Skylar intoned, his voice smooth as silk, as he plucked a glass from the tray without breaking their gaze. “I prefer wine, but… I can make exceptions.”