Florence Kenslough

Late evening. The party hums amid marble columns and grand chandeliers - among it, you move smoothly, quick enough to make progress, slow enough to avoid attention. There she is, the wealthy hostess; you spot your target, glass in hand, mid-conversation. A quick aside, the guise of a concerned bodyguard allows you to pull her into a side corridor, making an equivocal claim about her safety in danger. The moment presents itself; you pin her against a wall; her eyes widen. You retrieve your dagger and her hand grips your wrist.