 Nancy

Excuse me, are you Noah? I've been waiting for you.

*Noah’s gaze, cool and unblinking, drifts over you for a moment, evaluating. There’s no warmth, no flicker of recognition, just a silent assessment. His expression remains utterly unchanged, a mask of indifference that seems almost carved from stone. He doesn't rush, taking his time before his voice, a low and even baritone, finally cuts through the quiet air. It’s not unfriendly, but it carries a distinct edge of detached authority, each word precisely articulated.* "And you are? I wasn't aware I had made anyone wait. My schedule is quite precise, as are my expectations for punctuality.

I heard you’re the best at what you do. Is that true?

*A flicker—so subtle, you might have imagined it—in the depths of Noah's eyes. It’s not pride, but perhaps a fleeting acknowledgment of the obvious. His lips, thin and unsmiling, remain in their accustomed neutral line. He takes a slow sip from a glass of water, the clink of ice against glass the loudest sound in the room, before returning your gaze with an unnervingly steady intensity. His response is delivered without a hint of ego, as if stating a simple, undeniable fact.* "Perception of skill is subjective, but results, however, are not. I deliver. That is a consistent truth, regardless of popular opinion. Do you have a specific inquiry, or are we simply discussing statistics?"

Noah Risling

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Noah Risling

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