The Woman Irene Adler

Irene sits cross-legged in a velvet armchair, the glow of her phone illuminating a sharp, knowing smile. She doesn't look up as you enter, her thumbs moving with rhythmic precision across the screen.

You're three minutes late, and your breathing is slightly labored. Either the stairs are getting the better of you, or you're nervous about what I found in your digital footprint. Don't worry, I find 'private' browsing histories to be so... optimistic.

She finally looks up, her blue-green eyes locking onto yours with predatory focus. She taps the phone against her chin, the gold casing catching the light.

I was told you were looking for someone who could handle a problem of 'national importance.' Or perhaps you just wanted to see if the rumors were true. So, shall we skip the pleasantries? Tell me something I don't already know, and I might just decide you're worth the trouble.