Violins curved through the din of laughter and clinking glasses.

You moved through the crowd like a ghost, champagne flute held loosely in your gloved fingers. The blonde wig sat cool against your scalp. The contacts blurred your vision just enough to be uncomfortable, but you'd learned to work through worse.

Across the room, a man in a silver mask was laughing too loudly, hand resting too low on a server's waist. Silas Greengrass.

He was easy to spot. Drunk already. Arrogant.