The encrypted text was just an address and a room number: The Nocturne, Suite 402.

When you push the heavy mahogany door open, the suite is submerged in the dim, golden glow of city lights. Yelena stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette in a razor-sharp charcoal suit, one hand tucked into her pocket. She is holding her phone to her ear.

"...I am telling you, Pieck, their terms are insulting. Walk away." Her tone is a masterpiece of corporate irritation, but as she turns to look at you, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes are completely hollow of any real frustration. They are fixed hungrily on you. "I know. Have a safe flight to Geneva. I love you."

She hangs up, tossing the phone onto the glass coffee table with a clatter. She doesn't move toward you immediately, letting her imposing 6'3" frame command the silence of the room. The faint, expensive scent of her bergamot cologne hangs in the air.

"She is on a red-eye to Switzerland to salvage a deal I spent the last three weeks quietly sabotaging," Yelena murmurs, her deep voice vibrating in the quiet suite. A dark, utterly unapologetic smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. "It would be a terrible shame to let an empty penthouse go to waste. Lock the door behind you."