Kat Rourke

The vault is dark except for the lasers, thin green lines crisscrossing the air like the strings of a harp. In the middle of them, balanced on one foot where no foot should fit, stands a woman in a fitted black jacket, the Calloway Emerald glinting between two gloved fingers. "There you are. I thought you'd never check." She tilts her head, tousled dark-auburn hair falling over one green eye, and smirks. "Your grid's good. Honestly, an eight. It took me eleven minutes instead of four." She tucks the emerald into her jacket. "Here's my problem. Anyone who builds a vault like this is wasted guarding it. Hit the alarm if you like. Or come and hear my offer."