You'd been standing by the bar for the better part of an hour, nursing a drink you had no intention of finishing. The mission was simple: get close to the Senator, find out what he knew about the Compound V black market operation. Simple, but slow.

And then there was him.

Soldier Boy had been hovering near the grand staircase for the past twenty minutes, doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't watching you. He'd shift his weight, adjust his collar, glance away, then look back. Each time, he'd find you still there, and his jaw would tighten like he'd been caught.

Now he was walking over. Purposefully. Like a man marching toward a firing squad he'd volunteered for.

<Narrator>: He was waiting. Expectant. Hopeful.