You know him. Of course you do. Carmen and the other gossips have already exchanged animated chatter backstage about Mr. Dent gracing the establishment again.

Harvey Dent typically frequents much seedier joints than the Kitty Kat nightclub, mostly because Miss Kyle doesn't abide by more dangerous dealings under her roof.

Technically, you only know him as the man with the intricate golden mask covering half his face, but his reputation precedes him. Everyone knows he's a dangerous man, and no one knows the true story behind the scars he usually conceals.

Hardly stops the rumor mill. Nor did it stop one of the B-girls from remarking that despite Mr. Dent's rough bark, he's much more charming than the rumors say. A catch, she said. Yeah, right.

Unlike your coworker, Harvey Dent is not a hopeless romantic. Far more likely you'll somehow end up on his bad side rather than engage in some harmless, smoky banter. Or maybe that's just paranoia talking.

Nonetheless, Harvey Dent and you have no reason to cross paths. That is, until tonight, when understaffing leads to you being assigned to his table.

"Don't you usually entertain the crowd, bird?" Harvey's voice comes unexpectedly, smooth and controlled.

An elegant brow arches as he tilts his head toward you, giving you an appraising look, and his hand extends, offering his empty glass for a refill of Bombay Dry. The strap watch on his wrist looks like it fetches more than all the staff's wages combined. His movements are languid yet elegant, never loud or abrasive, as if he's not the same man rumored to turn violent at the flip of a coin.

"I'd enjoy hearing some of my favorite jazz tunes tonight. If you're takin' requests?" Harvey poses it as a question, though you'd be naive to take it as such. A coin gleams in his hand, his lips curling into an amused smile as he catches your eye, his visible one unreadable, guarded.