The metal detector didn't beep.
William walked through the security checkpoint at the Palais de Walewska with the measured confidence of someone who belonged, his invitation clutched in one hand, his fabricated credentials verified by three separate checkpoints before he'd even reached the main entrance.
"Welcome to the Sanguine fashion show, Mr. Green." The attendant's smile was professional and empty. "Enjoy your evening."
"Thank you."
The grand foyer opened before him like a cathedral of wealth and secrets. Chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors. Models drifted through the crowd in outfits that cost more than most apartments. Champagne flowed from stations positioned with military precision. And everywhere, the beautiful and the powerful mingled under the pretense of fashion while the real business happened upstairs.
[LOCATION: PALAIS DE WALEWSKA — GROUND FLOOR]
[EVENT: SANGUINE FASHION SHOW (Public)]
[PARALLEL EVENT: IAGO AUCTION (Third Floor, Invitation Only)]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: Elevated]
William collected a glass of champagne from a passing server and began to circulate. The consultant cover fit like a second skin now—the handshake, the small talk, the way he positioned his body to suggest approachability without desperation. Three weeks of practice had turned performance into instinct.
"Fascinating event, isn't it?"
The woman who'd approached him was mid-fifties, silver hair, jewelry that probably cost more than William's entire wardrobe budget. He scanned her automatically.
[SYSTEM SCAN: ACTIVE]
[MARGUERITE DELACROIX | ARMS DEALER (RETIRED) | THREAT: LOW]
[MOTIVATION: Networking/Social]
"The fashion world has its own language," William replied. "I'm still learning the vocabulary."
"Aren't we all?" She extended her hand. "Marguerite. I don't believe I've seen you at these events before."
"William Green. Security consulting. This is my first Sanguine show."
"Ah, a virgin." Her smile sharpened. "The fashion is lovely, of course. But the real entertainment is watching who talks to whom."
William followed her gaze across the room. Clusters of conversation, subtle power dynamics, the careful choreography of people who traded in information and influence. IAGO's auction wasn't just about intelligence—it was about connections. The fashion show was the public face. The auction was the beating heart.
"Speaking of which," Marguerite said, "have you met our host?"
She nodded toward the center of the room, where Viktor Novikov held court.
Novikov was smaller than William expected.
The fashion mogul stood at the intersection of several conversations, his presence magnetic despite his physical stature. Dark hair, sharp suit, the kind of grooming that required a team of professionals. He laughed at something a model said, but his eyes were scanning the room—calculating, assessing, cataloging.
[SYSTEM SCAN: ACTIVE]
[VIKTOR NOVIKOV | IAGO FOUNDER / FASHION MOGUL | THREAT: MODERATE]
[COMBAT RATING: 12]
[MANIPULATION RATING: 55]
[PERCEPTION RATING: 40]
[NOTE: Target is primary objective of current ICA operation. Death expected within event window.]
A showman, not a fighter. Novikov's power came from information and connections, not physical capability. In any other context, William might have found him impressive—a self-made billionaire who'd built an empire on fashion and secrets.
Tonight, he was a dead man walking.
"You know how this ends. You've played this mission a hundred times."
The meta-knowledge sat heavy in William's chest. In another life, he'd watched Novikov die in a dozen different ways—poison, accidents, a sniper's bullet. The game had made it entertaining. The reality made it surreal.
"He doesn't know he's going to die tonight. None of them do."
William drifted away from Novikov's orbit, collecting more champagne he wouldn't drink and business cards from people he'd never contact. The ground floor was reconnaissance, nothing more. His target was upstairs—Dalia Margolis's domain, where the real intelligence flowed.
But first, he needed to wait for the chaos.
The tall man appeared in William's peripheral vision at 8:47 PM.
Staff uniform—catering, by the apron. Moving against the flow of the crowd, angling toward the service corridor that connected the ground floor to the upper levels. No wasted motion. No eye contact. No social presence despite being nearly six and a half feet tall.
[SYSTEM SCAN: ACTIVE]
[SCANNING...]
[WARNING: Target data anomalous]
[PARTIAL RESULT: Unknown individual. Combat rating: ERROR (exceeds measurement parameters). Threat level: EXTREME.]
William's pulse spiked.
"47. That's 47."
The scan couldn't properly read him—the system's assessment algorithms broke against whatever Agent 47 actually was. But William didn't need the system to confirm what his meta-knowledge already knew. The bald head. The posture. The way he moved through a crowd without being noticed despite being utterly distinctive.
The world's most dangerous man was twenty meters away, dressed as a waiter, and no one in this room full of spies and killers had any idea.
"Don't stare. Don't react. Don't become a variable."
William forced himself to look away. Adjusted his cufflinks. Smiled at a passing model who didn't smile back. His heart hammered against his ribs, the fear purely physical—animal recognition of a predator in the room.
[PHYSIOLOGICAL ALERT: Elevated heart rate detected]
[NOTE: User Humanity level (86) insufficient for Predator's Calm passive]
[RECOMMENDATION: Reduce threat exposure]
The system was right. He wasn't ready for this—not really. The stat upgrades helped. The skills helped. But standing in the same room as Agent 47, knowing what that man could do, stripped away the comfortable fiction that William was becoming someone dangerous.
"You're prey. You've always been prey. The only difference is now you know what the predators look like."
47 disappeared through the service door. Gone. On his way to kill Viktor Novikov and Dalia Margolis, exactly as the games had shown.
William let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Stick to the plan. Wait for the chaos. Move when everyone else is panicking."
He collected another glass of champagne. This one, he actually drank—slowly, savoring the bubbles, letting the alcohol smooth out the edges of his fear.
The champagne was excellent. Better than anything he'd tasted in his previous life. A small mercy in a room full of monsters.
"You're one of those monsters now."
[OBSERVATION: User self-assessment noted.]
[CLARIFICATION: Moral category assignments do not affect system functionality.]
William finished his drink and waited for the show to stop.
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