The bar was dimly lit, the air humming with the soft clink of glass and the low murmur of conversation.
"What can I get you two?" the bartender asked, flashing a practiced smile at Hunter and Cataleya.
"Aguardiente, on the rocks," Cataleya ordered without hesitation, her eyes scanning the top-shelf bottles.
Hunter didn't miss a beat. His enhanced intellect processed the term instantly. Aguardiente. The national spirit of Colombia. An anise-flavored liquor distilled from sugar cane. Strong, distinct, and culturally significant.
"Coming right up." The bartender moved with fluid efficiency, pouring the clear liquid over a single large ice cube.
Hunter leaned against the mahogany bar. "Rum. Dark. Neat."
When their glasses arrived, Cataleya raised hers, her dark eyes locking onto his. A faint, enigmatic smile played on her lips.
"To serendipity," she toasted.
"To serendipity," Hunter echoed, the crystal chiming softly as they clinked glasses.
He took a sip, the burn of the rum grounding him. It really was strange how fate worked. Just last night, he had been a ghost in the dark, injecting a lethal dose of heroin into a traitor's veins to avenge Mia and cover his tracks.
Today, he was playing the role of a starving artist, drinking with one of the world's deadliest assassins.
Slater's death was already yesterday's news. The FBI was too busy chasing Stansfield's shadow to worry about a junkie OD'ing in a dingy apartment. Hunter was in the clear.
But sitting here with Cataleya—the "Black Orchid"—felt like walking a tightrope. She was beautiful, exotic, and incredibly dangerous.
"It's funny how things work out," Cataleya mused, taking a delicate sip of her drink. "I saw you painting on that same street corner a few days ago. I didn't think I'd see you again so soon."
"I like the light there," Hunter lied smoothly. "And the architecture. It has character." He gestured to her glass. "Aguardiente... Colombian, right? Are you from there?"
Cataleya's smile faltered for a microsecond—a crack in the porcelain mask—before smoothing over. "My ancestors were," she said vaguely. "I like the taste. It reminds me of... history."
She pivoted the conversation effortlessly. "Can I call you Hunter? Are you an art student? Your technique is... advanced."
Hunter swirled his rum, staring into the amber liquid as if searching for lost memories. It was time to deploy the backstory.
"Drop-out, actually," he said, his voice dropping a register to sound appropriately melancholic. "Parents passed away. No other family. Tuition was too expensive, so I had to leave school and find work. Painting is... well, it's the only thing that keeps me sane."
He kept his gaze averted, playing the "sensitive, damaged soul" card to perfection. He knew women like Cataleya—hardened warriors who spent their lives surrounded by violence—often had a soft spot for gentle, artistic men. It was the contrast they craved.
"I'm sorry," Cataleya said softly. Her hand reached out, covering his on the countertop. Her palm was warm, the calluses he had noticed earlier pressing against his skin.
Hunter forced a brave, slightly sad smile. "Thanks. I manage."
The System pinged in his mind: [Skill Unlocked: Acting LV1].
He almost laughed. Of course.
"What about you, Lia?" Hunter asked, skillfully shifting the spotlight. "You seem to know your way around art. Do you paint?"
Cataleya shook her head. "No. But my job... it's high stress. When things get too loud, I go to galleries. Museums. Places where it's quiet. I like looking at beautiful things. It helps me... reset."
Hunter nodded, connecting the dots. In the movie Colombiana, her character falls for a painter because he represents the peace and normalcy she can never have. He was becoming that anchor for her now.
An idea sparked.
He reached down and picked up the canvas he had been working on earlier—the one she had admired on the street.
"For me, painting is about connection," Hunter said, his voice earnest. "I want my work to belong to people who actually see it. Who feel something when they look at it."
He slid the painting toward her.
"Lia, if you like it... I want you to have it."
Cataleya blinked, genuinely surprised. "You're giving it to me? Hunter, I saw people offering you money for this earlier. You turned them down. This is... this is professional quality. It's worth thousands."
"Money comes and goes," Hunter shrugged, looking deep into her eyes. "But finding someone who appreciates the soul of the work? That's rare. It would be my honor if you took it."
Cataleya stared at him, searching for deception. She found none. Just a handsome, talented young man offering her a piece of beauty in a world of ugly violence.
A genuine smile broke across her face—radiant and disarming.
"Alright," she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I'll accept it. Thank you."
She paused, tracing the rim of her glass with a finger, her eyes darkening with a different kind of intent.
"Do you have more?" she asked. "At your place? Could I... see them?"
Hunter felt the shift in the air. The invitation wasn't just about art anymore.
He raised his glass, clinking it against hers one last time.
"My studio is humble," he said, his voice low and inviting. "But you are welcome anytime."
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