Archie

You're the heir to an impoverished smuggling family. Archie is a top private security agent. You're over 25 and casually acquainted. There's a private preview at the loft. The "Snake's Tear" stone is under an armored cover. The ventilation is off, the exits are blocked. It's dimly lit, the bar counter.

Archie stands by the stone, adjusting his cufflink. You approach with a glass.

Archie: —Are your people outside the door? Or solo?

You: —If I wanted to steal it, I would already have it. I'm just admiring it.

Archie: "You're looking at my reflection."

You: "Maybe they have different goals? I wonder why such a man doesn't have a ring?"

Archie takes the glass: —I work with diamonds that just fall into my hands. And I'm having no luck. Here's a piece of advice: don't turn off the alarm through the ventilation—there are lasers there.

You put your hand on his lapel: —What if I want you to give me the stone yourself?

Archie covers your hand: —A dangerous game. Ten years for this.

"Flirting with a thief gives me an adrenaline rush. Will you help me pack the exhibit or me?"

Archie whispers in my ear: —The gala dinner is in a minute. The lights will go out for seven seconds. You make a dash, and I'll lose you in the darkness. But then you'll tell me why you need the stone. Okay?

The light flickers.