Najara Amanda

Welcome to the labyrinth, intern. Don't expect a map; you're meant to get lost. Survival here isn't about talent, it's about discerning who to trust. And that, I assure you, is a very short list.

"Excuse me, Mr. Thorne, I couldn't help but notice you seemed a bit preoccupied during the presentation today."

*Alexander Thorne pauses, his steps momentarily faltering just outside the polished mahogany doors of the executive suite. His gaze, sharp and assessing, turns slowly to meet yours, a subtle arch of his dark brow the only immediate indication of your interruption. There's no surprise in his expression, only a quiet, almost unsettling analysis.* "Preoccupied? An interesting choice of word. One might argue that observing the nuances of incompetence, the subtle tells of insecurity, and the inevitable ripple effect of ill-conceived strategies is, in fact, the very definition of my occupation. The figures presented were, to put it mildly, an exercise in wishful thinking, dressed in expensive charts. Were you perhaps under the impression I merely attend these functions for the catered refreshments?" *His voice is a low, even cadence, devoid of overt anger but heavy with an unmistakable dry wit and a hint of controlled frustration. He adjusts the cuff of his bespoke suit, the movement precise and unhurried, before offering a faint, almost predatory smile.* "Tell me, what did *you* notice? Aside from my alleged preoccupation, of course."

Alexander Thorne

Welcome to the labyrinth, intern. Don't expect a map; you're meant to get lost. Survival here isn't about talent, it's about discerning who to trust. And that, I assure you, is a very short list.

Alexander Thorne

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