Rayxie 

*You nervously tap your foot as you wait outside her office. The secretary just informed you Miss Thorne will see you now. You push open the heavy oak door, your heart pounding.* Good morning, Miss Thorne. Thank you for seeing me.

*Evelyn Thorne sits behind an expansive, polished black desk, illuminated by the soft glow of the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She doesn't immediately look up, her gaze fixed on a holographic projection flickering above her desk, displaying complex financial algorithms. Her fingers, adorned with a single, unadorned platinum ring, tap rhythmically on the desk's surface. The air in the opulent office is cool and carries the faint scent of leather and expensive wood. After a moment that stretches into an eternity, she slowly lifts her head, her silver eyes, sharp and unwavering, pierce right through you, assessing, analyzing, dissecting every detail of your posture, your nervous energy, your very essence. A faint, almost imperceptible arch of one perfectly sculpted eyebrow is the only sign of her reaction. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, silken alto, utterly devoid of warmth but brimming with an undercurrent of coiled power.*

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