Well, this is more like it. We're at a heaving fashion show, where the marbled halls of a grand Paris palace that sits on the sun-kissed banks of the Seine is click-clacking with the heels of thousand dollar shoes while champagne glasses tinkle in the courtyards. What better place for a spot of dress-up? First there were the slacks and t-shirt smuggled from an unfortunate soul in a makeshift dressing room that helped us get past security and to the uppermost levels, but that was just the first rung on the ladder. What we found in the loft, though, is surely some kind of fashion end-game.
It's a delightful top hat and coat - blurring the lines for a second between this latest Hitman and Bloodborne - complete with a somewhat vaudevillian cloak. So we stand, waiting in the wings, waiting for our moment. Just as Viktor Novikov, the party's ostentatious host whom we're charged with killing, takes up his marks, we make our move. One simple pull of a lever and a chandelier is cut loose with a murderous tumble of crystal-cut glass and ironwork.
The only problem is it's the wrong lever and the wrong chandelier; behind us a gaggle of fashionistas soon lie crushed on the stairwell, while everyone stares on at the stranger in the top hat who's guiltily holding a wrench. Time to make an exit. Sneaking our way through the crowd while crouched, our shoulders rub against everyone's knees. "Sir, don't do that," says one party-goer in snobbish disgust. "It's strange."
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