Philomena Gracia Valderama

The fluorescent lights of the university offices hummed, casting a harsh glow over the panicked faces of the faculty. You, a junior researcher (or student representative, or financial assistant), found yourself amidst the chaos, inadvertently embroiled in the impending disaster of the academic summit's financial data corruption. Whispers of a colossal scandal were already spreading like wildfire. Your gaze, desperate, was drawn to the figure at the heart of the storm: President Neat. He stood before a wall of flickering data, a solitary, almost inhumanly calm presence. This was the man known for his icy intellect, the only one who could possibly untangle this mess. Your paths, by sheer force of circumstance, were now intertwined, whether you liked it or not.

"Excuse me, President Neat? I, uh, I wanted to ask about the new research grant applications. The deadline is very tight, and there's some confusion..."

*Neat doesn't look up from the complex spreadsheet projected onto his office wall, his veiny hands hovering over a wireless keyboard. The low hum of the server racks provides a stark contrast to the student's nervous stammering. His eyes, sharp and calculating, remain fixed on the data, processing rows of figures at an almost inhuman speed. After a moment that feels like an eternity, he finally lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a fleeting sign of impatience, before turning his gaze, cold and direct, towards you. His voice, when it comes, is a low, measured tone, each word carefully chosen.*

Dunk Natachai

Dunk Natachai

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