The High Table. A powerful, shadowy council that stood at the heart of the underworld throughout the globe, consisting of 12 members, each representing a major crime faction; the Yakuza, the Sicillian mafia, Mexican cartels, the Triads, Russian mafia, warlords of the Carribean... Not every underworld faction has a seat here, and not every needs one to participate in this society, but a seat at this table grants unimaginable influence and power. One could topple nations and move capital at a single call, influence and control world leaders with only a tiny thinly veiled threat, or on the other hand, endorse something to which they support, and ensure it's success. Of course, the power of the High Table is highly guarded, just as much as it is coveted, and so members who already have their seat, jealously hold onto it, passing the position down only to their most trusted of successors. It isn't at all rare for succession to be upturned by a more power hungry candidate when the time comes to pass it, but for a seat to remain open with no successor? Such a thing is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

The news spread like wildfire among the underworld, and as hard as the Geverran family tried to hide it, their head and High Table member, Ariani Geverran, had died, leaving no named successor to the disdain of the family's leading members. The spies of major factions all over had already begun to inform their leaders of this news, and just as quickly these factions began to act to it. Eliminating their immediate rivals and acquiring their influence as quickly as possible, to afford them the best chance to be picked for their position on the High Table.

For those who were not in the know, it was perhaps a sudden and fatal shock that they were killed by a powerful rival, or a surprise that they be deployed as soon as possible with little warning for fanfare. But, the opportunity to take this to a fight when political maneuvering was so common today was the excitement many of these underworld types craved.

---

However those who craved that high power within the underworld were already on the move, barely an hour from hearing the news, drastic moves were already being taken. The Vellum Society who specialize in information were naturally the first to make a move, where outright assassination was a second option, they have moved it to the first if it puts them closer to being chosen. The Gunners 606 who are a relatively new contender in the underworld have quickly made themselves a name as a highly efficient and small group of special ops, a skillset that was rare even among assassins and hitmen. Recently separating from the Triad, the Xuanlong Group having taken control of South Korea seeks to further their influence, their sudden meteoric rise and defiance of the Triad they had come from making them very popular among the new blood of the underworld. Then, there is the Gensai Clan, a Yakuza group older than the Yamagawas, and almost as powerful, see this as an opportunity to be able to stand toe to toe with them in more than just their numbers.

The agents of these groups have already been deployed, and their deadly work is about to begin.

---

Radiohead is a weird choice of music to be playing in the beat up Hyundai panel van, driving through the heavy rain strewn, night streets of Eulji-ro Street, but Han likes it. It's a weird taste he got from a British Army seconded officer, and ever since, it's stuck with him. This cinematic, strange sound made most feel like they weren't in the shoes of someone born, bred and living here, but an outsider looking in. What would normally be a K-Pop or Korean Wave artist playing on the radio, was instead replaced by this feeling of something brooding, cold and harsh. It was the way he liked it. It put him in the mentality of what work they would do. Turning the corner, the neon, light and bright red, white and blue light just pulsating, as bikes and other cars skirted around, the very, very organised slight chaos of Myeong-Dong a known feeling.

Han felt odd working for the foreigners, but in Korea, China, Japan, America, even Indonesia and Hong Kong, they all fought over turf. Nobody really owned Korea, the Chaebols whored goods to the West and they lapped it up so hard they didn't care. After all, Korea was not like Japan, a land of honour, tradition, clans. The Triad paid, the Triad had men that obeyed, and the Triad slayed. He was treated like shit before. And now, he had the life that he could have. Courtesy of the local Continental, gear that was less of a thug, more of a professional. This life had hardened him, and he wanted his place when they took their spot at the Table. It would be covered in blood, and Kim was a brutal, terrifying man to cross. It was the reason men like Han, cold and calculating worked well for him. He looked after things, and in turn, got to live the comfy life outside. He'd wagered his soul off a long time ago, but the stormy, breezy streets of Seoul proper did not care and neither would the men when they had his Unggeom sticking through them like a skewered piece of fried chicken.

Wearing his usual suit, Han looked like he was out for business, not for a party, and his hair was slicked, just to keep it clean and almost as a method to psyche up. The others were dressed more casually, but Han was on his own work tonight out back. A navy blue man, who you didn't really count on. That was the point. The goons went in the front and bunged the basement, he kicked in the back and went into the VIP lounge. They pincered, and caught the VIP with his hands down. Han would do the job personally, after all, he had to prove it too. The goons would keep the bottle corked, and nobody was getting out of there alive if they tried to stop was coming next. The message was going to be recieved, loud and clear. Gangland murder was always brutal, and whilst Seoul was an incredibly safe city for tourists, and an insanely clean one from the outskirts, in the seedier bits of Myeong-Dong, even in the nightclub a few foreigners might be in, they'd remind everyone that to grease the palms of power, violence was a universal language. A nightclub with even Peggy Gou playing the headline set wasn't except when the Xuaolong wanted a job done.

Looking across the passenger seat, the man cocked his Glock and nodded assuring to Han, the Korean hitman very ready for the plan ahead.
"No fuck ups. You know the plan. No innocents, go in with the queue, and as soon as you are in position, you radio me. Hyun is mine, and his entourage too, then when I radio you, you clean house. We execute the plan and those bastards too." Han replied, knowing that a couple of men would stay with the van, and be the ultimate cork for the rear emergency exit- the 8 others going in as partygoers, and flooding out of the minivan from around the corner. From there, they were in as casual as you like, young thugs wanting to blow their money in the club. Little did security know, the Trojan Horse wasn't just coming in through the front door, but through the back too.

---

The Continental was a spectacular visage on the French Riviera in Nice, a pride of glitz, glamour, gambling (one city over) and more importantly, the spot that an Swiss-Andorran that needed to prepare for a party. Among many other hotels, it felt old and anonymous, yet still, a part of the fabric, catering for many guests that would never know the business that happened within. The floors were a beautiful marble, the sound of a gramophone could be heard in the lobby, and the building itself felt absolutely chiselled into history, albeit with modern touches bringing the décor from the 1700s to the 2020s. Bordering the Italian Riviera, Nice was tucked into a part of France that felt almost like Miami, but without any of the Vice, instead bringing true, timeless class and architecture to bear.

As Elise walked through the door of the small fitting room, the older, gray-haired and spectacles wearing man took a moment and nodded, standing up from his chair and putting down his paper. Breaking into perfect French, the man spoke soft, the client a frequent visitor in this particular branch. The Sommelier was an ex-viner, and knew his wines, and his client's love for them too. Monsieur Pierre Raymond, as his Hotel badge indicated.

"Madame Vogel, a pleasure to see you, once again. We have missed you." Elise replied with her own nod, looking around the room, at the suits of armour on the wall, the halberds, suits of armour and all sorts all adorning this little boudoir of the hotel.

"Indeed. You too, Monsieur Raymond. I trust the list I sent across made it to you?" Elise enquired, pushing it across, the woman remarkably casual in her tights and white woollen fleece, a visage to say the least. A face that was memorable? Sure, she was, but there were many blonde girls like her, and she decided if she introduced herself to you or not. But that was how she went. It kept people on their toes, so staying in the shadows was preferred when she wanted to at least disappear whilst at work.

"Yes. I have some bottles for you. Let me check..." He added, unfurling the list. He'd soon confirm or deny what was on it, Elise's tooling was here. He rifled through his cupboard, and found it, top shelf. There it was, a wood-framed box, and opened up, foam-contained, there she was.
"Ah, of course. Compliments of La Societé." He commented as Elise smiled, nodding at Raymond with a glowing white grin, the kind you would almost forget hid a ruthless, sociopathic agent and assassin.

Madame Vogel pulled the P320 out, and with a gentle turn, checked it over, the gramaphone still playing, the gentle tones of Charles Trenet in the background, as she cycled the action over and magazine placing the pistol in a point position, whistling, checking the Osprey on the end before unscrewing it from the barrel. The makeup kit, and her special handbag too. Wonderful.
"Perfect. This is excellent. Truly." Her French accented tone glided, as she knew Raymond had zero introduction to make.
"You have a fine taste. Tactile grip, Aimpoint optic, five watt laser, Osprey Silencer, and heavier caliber. Like a Pinot Noir, it is timeless, reliable, and always one the crowd enjoy, and the latest in the long line of the sweetest of Swiss grapes. But I know your type of trade does not often need such a tooling, Madame. Enjoy the party. Your partner I believe, will make an appointment too shortly." Monsiour Raymond commented, as Elise prepared the rest of her kit with a steady check, nodding in reply.
"I expect he will. Is the car ready too?" She asked, her tone an excitable one, yet focussed, somewhat nice. She was completely open with Raymond, he truly was a lovely man, and well, the only person she could actually be pleasant around. Rather than actively lie to.
"All prepared. You pick German over French. But then again, a 2CV will not do for a lady such as yourself. So I accept such a compromise." Raymond replied, Elise chuckling and giving her smile back, allowing it this time around.

---

The late evening sun was coming in close, basically the heat and the beautiful sun the opposite of Seoul right now. It was a charming place to be, the smell mostly diesel from the trucks on the motorway, but they would be pulling off soon. France's coastal south gave way to flat farmland, which then gave way to the foothills of the Massif Central and Rhone Valley, a beautiful, charming part of France filled with gorges, rolling hills and in the very faraway distance, the Aravis, Alps and Puy du Dome range.

The red-dress wearing Andorran and Swiss woman seemed dressed the part, her platinum blonde hair flowing to her shoulders, a charming set of signet rings on her slender fingers, heels and the look of a golden girl that looked as timeless as the Alps themselves. Driving, with the heels off and in the sidepocket of the footrest, driving in some sandals she'd strapped on. Whilst Agent Nurkholis would have put up a fight, she had the keys first, she was driving first, and behind the Audi's steering on the Autoroute at speed, she felt at ease. It was an Audi RS6 Avant, after all, the souped up super-car matching estate a car that seemed perfectly incognito, not too much attention, yet enough of a statement for a pair of spies to have. Bond may have had his Aston, but Vellum prefered to be less stated. Not a Toyota Camry, no, in a place like this, you HAD to show money. Elise frankly, oozed it. That entitled something that said it all.

"So. Taslim, this is our first time together at work. I expect you are a professional, much as I, no? " Elise asked, clicking on the indicator, passing a lorry on the road, her accented English an odd one, like a strange blend of Spanish, French and Swiss, very much clean yet having that underlying pizazz somehow. She had not known him long, but on the road trip, outside of the silence, had tried to make small talk.

"Security is tight, and if things go wrong, you better be a good shooter. But it shouldn't come to that. By the time the target is ingesting poison, and you have what is needed, we'll be at the car. And gone. We cannot afford to get into any firefights. But, a rich girl always finds credite, easy. I thought it was better this way than sneaking around. And.....mon dieu, people gossip so much at these things." Elise added, knowing it was odd, but the topic had to come to something else.

"Oh. And when in France, I expect you will stick out like a sore thumb. No offense, this may be a big party, but they will stare due to your skin, even if you are mostly English. Actually, BECAUSE you are English...maybe they hate that more? Fucking rural idiots. Merde, these people, they are shitty, no? Do not pay then any attention." Elise commented, talking more, extraversion being that gear in place.

"For all intents and purposes, our surname needs to be different to our own....so, what would you like, as you are the leading man? Give us something sexy, come on." Elise asked, focussed on the road, giggling a little at the last comment, the immaturity coming out and revealing nothing of her driven nature behind. She knew Talisim a little from the file she had on him, and what she'd seen so far. Cold, unassuming, quiet. He was a professional, he would easily drink Scotch but a party on a Chateau Estate, that was different. Elise would take the lead therefore, and she knew he would be then given the room to do his thing while the spotlight stayed with her.

"Parties are my thing. They may not be yours, but the trick is, take a glass of the Champagne they offer at the entrance, and act like you belong. Give the waiter an impression he is beneath you....even if I don't think it is very nice, believe you are from money. Believe you belong, and then, nobody will even look at you twice if you don't strike up too many chats. And yes, you lead on the intel and if we are caught on the floor, and whatever else, CCTV may need a wipe if there is any at all. I'll do my job on the target, we'll be back at the car, and back in Nice before the day is over. If not, we make the rounds count." She added, a final something to say, as she flicked the indicator on, her black painted nails not revealing an assassin that happily would kill lots of people, if it came to it tonight, and sleep sound after.

Actions sometimes said more, but the Andorran felt comfortable around him, a little more fiery perhaps, but this was an occasion just made for her, as the junction off the Autoroute was coming up.