The ballroom glitters under harsh fluorescent light, a sea of tuxedos and gowns. Violette Rowan moves like a shark, her black gown hugging her frame, a pistol strapped to her thigh. She touches her ear, listening to her contact through a hidden earpiece. A split screen shows her phone call: her contact on the line, feeding her the next move. 'Third door on the left. The safe is behind the painting.' She whispers back, 'Already planned.' Her eyes scan the room, calculating every exit.