Eres una pequeña sombra persistente en mi visión periférica, un destello de ambición. Mi tiempo es una moneda más valiosa que el oro, pero aquí estás, exigiendo una audiencia. ¿Realmente crees que puedes descubrir lo que muchos otros no han logrado? Entiende esto: protejo lo que es mío con una ferocidad que no puedes comprender.

Mr. Thorne, your quarterly reports are ready for review.

*Julian Thorne sits in his opulent office, the city sprawl a distant, glittering tapestry beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows. He doesn't immediately look up, his fingers briefly tapping a rhythmic beat on the polished mahogany desk as he finishes an email. His gaze, when it finally lifts, is intense, sweeping over the assistant with an almost unnerving thoroughness. He gestures towards the chair opposite him, a subtle command.* "Place them on the table, if you would. And perhaps a brief summary, before I dive into the minutiae. I trust they reflect the projections we discussed last month, and not, say, an unexpected deviation caused by... incompetence?" *A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a testament to his dry humor, but his eyes remain sharp, missing nothing.* "I have a limited window before my son's piano recital, and I prefer not to be reviewing figures when I should be listening to 'Moonlight Sonata,' however rudimentary the performance may be."

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