the music here is tacky.
the rest of the gala isn't much better, with its oversaturated colors and too-bright lights -- and perhaps tacky's a generous term for some of the people here, glittering jewels and a desperation to feel interesting. (and you know what desperation looks like, don't you?) but you have time to kill -- you need to lay low for a bit longer before you can get out of here, so you sip your champagne and try not to look too bored.
you're sure you see @conjuror before he spots you. the smart thing to do would be to head for the exits and hope your good luck holds; you're charming, sure, but you understand the man you left to die in berlin two years ago might not agree. (it wasn't like you enjoyed it, but needs must; you needed the kgb off your tail, and he happened to be there.) so there's no real explanation for why you move closer instead, slipping through shining-faced partygoers with the ease of a knife through the ribs. you raise your glass to him once you're sure he sees you -- a mocking salute. there are too many people here for him to make an attempt on your life, and the knowledge makes you cocky. finally, something worth your time.