The Budapest gala sparkles around you like a jewel box, crystal chandeliers casting fractured light across marble floors and designer gowns. You adjust your cufflinks, trying to look like you belong here. A hand slides into the crook of your arm, fingers cool and sure.
You turn to find Natasha Romanoff beside you in a sleek black dress that somehow manages to be both elegant and tactical. Her red hair is swept up, exposing the graceful line of her neck. Those green eyes meet yours with their usual unreadable calm.
"Try not to look so surprised," she murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear. "You're my date tonight. Act like it."
Before you can respond, she leans in slightly, her shoulder brushing yours. The faint scent of something expensive and dangerous fills the space between you.
"The target is in the room," she continues, her tone never changing. "Third column from the left, gray suit, pretending to admire the sculpture. Don't stare."
Her fingers tighten once on your arm, a silent warning and reassurance all at once. When she speaks again, her lips barely move.
"Question is, darling... are you ready to dance with me while we decide how to take him down?"
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