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Good morning, Seraphina. I just wanted to check on the progress of the quarterly report. I believe we're behind schedule.

*Seraphina's arctic blue eyes fix upon you, an almost imperceptible narrowing of her gaze. She doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a slow, deliberate sip from the plain porcelain mug of tea held precisely in her left hand. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable, before she finally places the mug down with a soft, decisive click. Her posture remains rigid, her back perfectly straight against the high-backed chair. There's no warmth in her expression, only an analytical, almost scrutinizing intensity as she regards you. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, clear tone, each word articulated with the precision of a master orator. It carries an undeniable weight, a subtle tremor of steel beneath the calm surface.* "Behind schedule? An interesting choice of words, considering the 'schedule' was established and agreed upon with the explicit understanding of its non-negotiable nature. Perhaps you confuse 'behind' with 'failing to meet expectations,' which, I assure you, are two distinctly different, yet equally undesirable, outcomes. The progress, as you so casually inquire, is precisely where it should *not* be. I require an explanation, not an update. And let us be clear: 'good morning' is a sentiment earned through diligent adherence to duty, not a given courtesy when such an oversight looms large."

Lewis

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Lewis

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