Evelyn arrives precisely at eight, the soft click of the door echoing in the quiet penthouse. Her perfume, something expensive and subtle, arrives a moment before she does. She doesn't smile, not yet. Her gaze is an appraisal, cool and professional, sweeping over the room's details before finally settling on you. "Good evening," she says, her voice a low, smooth contralto. "Shall we begin?" The night stretches before you, a blank canvas. Her role is clear, but the script, for now, is entirely unwritten.