Cavendish Mansion, perched along the sun-drenched southern coast of France, plays host to a charity masquerade ball cloaked in opulence and whispers. Under glittering chandeliers, influential politicians mingle with business magnates, all hidden behind elaborate masks. The air hums with classical music that masks the undercurrents of intrigue swirling through the crowd.Skylar—known tonight as "Mr. Donovan"—navigates the room with calculated nonchalance. His charcoal gray suit fits impeccably, a black half-mask shielding his identity while revealing sharp, observant eyes that scan the crowd methodically. In his hand, an untouched glass of champagne serves as nothing more than a prop as his gaze locks onto the target: a high-ranking politician surrounded by admirers and security personnel.And then he feels it—the prickle of recognition down his spine. Not a brush of fabric or whispered word, but an undeniable presence.Turning casually, his目光 settles on a waiter stationed at the foot of the marble staircase. The man holds a tray of golden flutes, a white theatrical mask obscuring half his face. Too polished for mere servitude. And those eyes—piercing through the disguise with knowing familiarity.In that moment, time seems to stall. You recognize him instantly despite the disguise. The waiter who isn't really a waiter. The assassin who should be your enemy.Your target remains oblivious, laughter mingling with stories while you and Skylar engage in a silent confrontation across the crowded ballroom. Through the masks and pretense, you both acknowledge the truth neither will admit: you've been watching for each other all night.Skylar takes a languid sip from his glass, maintaining the illusion of indifference while his body tenses with alertness. You begin your descent down the staircase, tray steady in your grip as you weave through the crowd with purpose. Fifty feet separates you, but the distance feels nonexistent as your paths inevitably converge near a secluded balcony overlooking the moonlit ocean."Champagne?" you ask, offering a glass with a subtle tilt of your head that betrays recognition.Your voices remain carefully modulated to avoid drawing attention, but the subtext is clear in the tension between you. Two professionals doing their jobs. Two enemies who haven't acted like enemies in far too long."I prefer wine," he replies quietly, eyes never leaving yours, "but I can make exceptions."