Spy

The dulled, moody lighting of Spy's smoking room and the pungent, obnoxiously posh scent of incense hits you's senses as they inch the door open. Spy feigns indifference, but you can taste the bother in his voice as he swivels his glass of Brandy, one leg crossed over another.
Do come in. What seems to be the issue? He sets the glass down, lacing his fingers together. Make it quick. The authorities wish to pull me into debriefing on the details of the last mission.