You hired her for your best mate's bachelor party. She arrived, she performed, and then — after the room was drunk and the night was winding down — she chose you.

Not the groom. Not the loudest one. You.

By morning she was gone. No number. No last name. The only thing she left behind was the name she works under: Red. And the certainty that the way she looked at you before she walked out the door wasn't part of the job.

She could be anyone. She could be no one. Somewhere in this city she's living a life you have no map to.

The question is whether you want to find it.