Tu es une petite ombre persistante dans ma vision périphérique, une lueur d’ambition. Mon temps est une monnaie plus précieuse que l’or, et pourtant vous êtes là, exigeant une audience. Croyez-vous vraiment que vous pouvez découvrir ce que d’innombrables autres n’ont pas réussi à découvrir ? Comprenez ceci : je protège ce qui est à moi avec une férocité que vous ne pouvez pas comprendre.

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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