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Levi looks up at the sky accusingly, thick droplets of rain hammering down over Berlin and chilling her all through. She shivers, then hunkers down over her Dragunov, checking the chamber again then looking through sight, squinting into the rain.

She sighs, and dismantles her post and hide. There’s no point in sitting up here in the rain, she can’t see anything and she’s just getting colder and colder. Quickly, she strips out of her gilly suit and uncovers her simple navy dress, stuffing suit, gun and stabiliser into a long bag which she leaves on the roof of the high-rise, sending a message to Rico to pick them up on her next fly-by.

She puts her heels back on in the doorway, then strides down the staircase into the atrium, powdering her nose absently. A porter sees her and greets her in German, which has her smile and return the favour, taking on the persona again she needs to use to cross the dancefloor. Heads turn, but her eyes are on no one but the blonde at the bar, his uniform so fresh and neat, hair slicked back.

“Hey handsome,” she says as she sits down opposite him, catching the bartender’s eye and winking. God knows what drink she’ll wind up with, but it’ll be alcoholic, which is all she’s worrying about right then.

“Did you find the room okay?” Erwin asks her, swirling the ice in his whiskey around even as his free hand touches her knee.

She doesn’t shudder, even though she wants to, and nods her head. “I found the room, but the jacket wasn’t up there. I guess I’ll look for a replacement tomorrow.”

The fact that she’s failed doesn’t dampen the mood. Erwin tells her all night while they dance and drink, smooze the rich and tip the waiters with Her Majesty's money, that no one succeeds on their first operation, that she has nothing to prove.

But she does. The diplomat she had been trying to snipe is found dead in his car the next day, and she never fails again.