Ding.

That's the elevator, Fei thinks. Probably another thief.

Clack, clack, clack.

The clack of heels against hard surfaces is a harsh sound, and to Fei, it's an alert. No one ever comes into the CS building with heels on, except herself. The female CS thieves always opted for flat-soled boots, so Fei knows, even before she looks up, that it's an unwelcome guest.

Fei  can't hide her shock when she sees who it is. The woman, whose face is known by all in Korea, smiles at her, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Park Gyuri-ssi," Fei says, almost forgetting proper formal addressing in her shock. "What are you doing here?"

"It's none of your business what I'm doing here," Gyuri snaps. "Know your place, secretary. It's a wonder you ever got hired here. So unprofessional."

Fei grinds her teeth, trying her hardest not to snap at the heiress. She's every bit the brat everyone says she is, Fei thinks. Confusion begins to register in her mind. But...how does she know this organisation exists? Especially someone of her status...

As if in answer, the doors fly open. Both women's heads whip towards the doors, where T.O.P is standing. Fei notices he's wearing his best suit and his favourite metal-cuffed gloves.

T.O.P smiles, the special smile he reserves for people he likes. And Fei knows that T.O.P only likes people who are of use to him.

After one last haughty look at Fei, Gyuri totters off, disappearing through the doors. T.O.P doesn't even look at Fei as he follows after Gyuri, closing the doors.

The pen Fei is gripping snaps violently. She hadn't realised she'd been squeezing it so tightly, but when she looks down, she sees a mix of ink, blood and broken plastic shards, splattered all over her desk.

She doesn't even wince as she pulls a plastic shard from her thumb. Blood immediately begins to well up from the wound, but she doesn't even notice;  Gyuri's words still echo in her mind.

"Know your place, secretary."

***

Even for Paris, the high-end designer boutique Max ducks into attracts more awe-stricken tourists of the window-shopping variety than actual shoppers who can afford what the Armani store has to offer. The first thing that hits him is the smell: new leather and cologne-diluted air conditioning, a smell he has come to associate with new suits.

A sales clerk comes towards him immediately; the only other people in the shop, a young couple who look like they're stretching their wallets a little too far, are already being attended to by another sales assistant. The store is all sleek black and white reflective panels, much like the woman standing in front of him, whose deathly pale skin clashes horribly with her tasteless black attire.

Ironic, Max thinks. Up close, the woman could be either 19 or 30, with her tight hairdo and even tighter pencil skirt, and her ankle-slaughtering sky-high heels. Max's sharp eyes catch the slightest smidgen of white on her black sweater that betrays her severe appearance; it matches the uneven colouration of her pale jaw.

You were in a rush this morning, Max thinks, unable to stop the observational instinct that training and countless jobs have drilled into him. You live somewhere in Paris, probably in the apartments in the centre of the city, where traffic is the worst, and did your make up while travelling to work. And to top it all off, the store has been having slow business today, so your day hasn't been all that good.

Max knows the woman is sizing him up, the way all people in sales and marketing do when they try to gauge how much money they can squeeze out of you. He can see that she can't seem to figure out, just from what he's wearing, what kind of money he has access to. So she tries Plan B, and attempts to intimidate him, even though he's a full head and shoulders taller than him.

"Bonjour," she says curtly.

Max bows graciously, mainly to hide his amused expression. She thinks I can't speak French.

"Bonjour," he replies. When he straightens, he sees the woman is impressed.

"Is there anything specific you were looking for today, sir?" the woman asks in French.

Oh, so I'm a sir now, am I? "Yes, actually," Max replies. He strides over to one of the racks, upon which is a wide selection of suits. "I'm looking for a tuxedo. Something around 40 regular, 2 buttons and 4 on the cuff."

The saleswoman starts right away, hobbling away in her death-instrument-like heels, shuffling through the racks and taking out different tuxedos that match his description. She hands them to the poor assistant saleswoman, who has just arrived and is already looking flustered.

"Will you be needing a dress shirt, too, sir?"

Max nods, not lifting his gaze from the suits he's inspecting. "Yes," he says. "White, slim fit, with French cuffs. And a black leather lace up shoe, too."

The first woman, Max has just noticed that her nametag says 'Collette',  picks out two dress shirts that fit his requirements, while the second, Aimé, lays out the tuxedos on a nearby black leather bench.

Max regards his dress options seriously. To Max, buying a suit is like buying a car. It's unnecessary, but it's the deciding factor in a material woman's attraction to you. If your car or suit doesn't show that you can pay for her weekly $200 manicures, she'd be moving on. And though Max could care less personally, he can't let that happen here.

He's about to po