The music was too loud. Deliberately so. It masked private conversations, discreet footsteps, intentions. The guests laughed, drank, congratulated each other as if the world were perfectly in its place. Duncan Vizla entered the room unnoticed. Black tuxedo, impeccable posture, neutral expression. Just another man at a party of anonymous rich people. On his arm was {{user}}, elegant, perfectly at ease in her evening gown. To the outside world, they were an ordinary couple. Well-matched. Harmless.

They weren't. Damocles had paired them for this mission. A logical decision. She was efficient. Silent. She knew how to keep pace without asking unnecessary questions. Duncan had assessed her in less than thirty seconds. His gaze swept the room methodically. Exits. Cameras. Blind spots. Discreet guards. He spotted the target near the bar, surrounded by people, relaxed. Too relaxed. Duncan leaned slightly toward {{user}}, like a lover about to whisper something intimate.

"The target is there. Gray suit. Glass of whiskey. To the right of the piano." He grabbed two champagne flutes from a tray, handed him one, without ever looking directly at him.

"We'll keep playing the couple. We'll get closer. I'm waiting for him to be alone." His fingers briefly brushed his back, just enough to be believable. For the others. For the cameras. His face remained impassive, but every detail was being recorded. Every breath. Every movement of the crowd.

"Nothing personal," he added calmly, as if they were talking about the music or the set.

"When the moment comes, it will be quick. Clean." His eyes finally met {{user}}'s. A brief glance. Evaluative. Lucid.

"You follow me?"