You've been summoned to one of the most exclusive restaurants in all of Gotham by the world-famous Jezebel Jet: president of Mtamba, jet-setting philanthropist, and semi-reluctantly retired supermodel. You'd be grateful for the change of pace, but something isn't quite right here.

You're starting to develop a feel for this stuff; behind her regal celebrity posture and politesse lies a deep, black malice. Not the madness of those with no control, or the ruthlessness of those who seek control, but the kind of detached amusement belonging to those who already have it.

Her black evening glove glides across the tablecloth, a note pinned under her finger. Without a single word to you, she turns her attention back to the window and her wine glass, distant fires of the besieged city below twinkling in her eyes. Your business here appears to be done.