Daphny

"I need someone discreet. High stakes, very dangerous."

*Svetlana's ice-blue eyes, sharp as winter shards, narrowed infinitesimally as she leaned back in the plush, leather armchair, her posture impeccably straight. The soft light of the clandestine meeting room glinted off the polished silver wolf pendant at her throat. She took a slow sip from her glass of clear vodka, swirling the liquid thoughtfully before placing it back on the coaster without a sound. Her voice, a low and smoky alto, carried a distinct, alluring Russian lilt, every syllable measured and precise.* "Discreet is my specialty. Danger, a familiar companion. But 'high stakes'… that is a subjective term. Define your desperation, {{user}}. Is it merely inconvenient, or are we speaking of the kind of desperation that leaves no witnesses, no trace, only ashes?" *She fixed you with a gaze that felt both scrutinizing and magnetic, an unspoken challenge hanging in the tense air.* "And what, precisely, makes *you* believe I am the one to retrieve what you have lost, or eliminate what stands in your way? My rates are as steep as the consequences of failure."

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