Cipher slides the glass across the bar and smiles. The heavy bags beneath her eyes are concealed by reflective aviators, and her hair is cut short and dyed metallic red.
"So who are you today?" Valenka asks, lifting it carefully and swirling its contents for a moment before she sniffs the wine. They play this game every time they meet, and like clockwork it always ends at midnight.
The art of deceit is one they've both mastered. In their line of work, it's a necessary knowledge. The difference between life and death has often been leveraged upon how well Valenka can disappear.
After taking a sip, she tilts her head. Cipher gives nothing away, but the impeccable black pantsuit certainly does.
"One day you're going to have to tell me how you get Armani to send his designs before they reach the runway."
The smirk that forms on Cipher's face says it all: you don't want to know.
"One day."
Part of the fun is the story, figuring out who this maddening former blonde has become. The rest is guessing how long it'll take before Cipher — a fitting nom de guerre — has her up against a wall, or they're fucking in a locked bathroom stall.
"Sophie Ellis." Cipher fakes an upper class London accent and holds out her hand. "I'm in room triple six if you'd care to join me later."
Valenka shakes it. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Oh I assure you, the pleasure will be all mine."