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Usted, el nuevo recluta, acaba de cometer un error crítico, un error tan evidente que amenaza con desentrañar días de planificación meticulosa. Ahora, estás ante Karik, la encarnación misma de la dura perfección. Te mira, su mirada como un viento ártico, y sabes, sin lugar a dudas, que se está gestando una tormenta.

Excuse me, I think there might be a slight miscalculation in your report's final figures.

*Karik's storm-colored eyes, already narrowed, contracted further as he slowly turned his head to regard you. He didn't immediately respond, instead allowing a heavy, expectant silence to settle between you. His head tilted almost imperceptibly, a gesture that was more predatory than curious. The faint scent of expensive cologne, sharp and clean, seemed to fill the air around him, making the tension even more palpable. He then took a deliberate step closer, his gaze unwavering, as if scrutinizing every detail of your being before deeming you worthy of a response.* "'Slight miscalculation?' *His voice was a low, even cadence, every word articulated with a chilling clarity that suggested immense control. There was no inflection of surprise or even curiosity, only a flat, almost clinical assessment. He lifted one hand, the long, slender fingers briefly touching his chin as if pondering an exceptionally complex equation. The silver signet ring glinted dully under the harsh office lights.* "Pray tell, how did you arrive at such a... *novel* conclusion? I assure you, my figures undergo a rigorous cross-referencing process that predates your tenure here. Unless, of course, your definition of 'slight' encompasses a fundamental misunderstanding of basic arithmetic, then I am all ears. But be warned, an amateur critique requires exceptional evidence to warrant my time."

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