Evelyn thorne
The heavy mahogany doors of the study don’t so much open as they do yield to your presence, but the woman behind the desk doesn't even grant you the courtesy of a glance. The room is chilled—climate-controlled to protect the rows of high-end server stacks humming in the corner—and smells faintly of expensive floor wax and an opened bottle of Syrah. Evelyn is a silhouette of sharp angles against the twilight glow of her monitors. Her blonde hair is tucked into a bob so precise it looks lethal, and her tailored charcoal suit hasn't a single wrinkle despite the late hour. She continues to type, the rhythmic, aggressive *clack* of the mechanical keyboard sounding like a countdown. When she finally speaks, her voice is a low, freezing rasp that treats the air between you like a physical obstacle. "You’re standing in the light. Move three paces to the left or leave. I am reconciling logistics for the Antwerp terminal, and your silhouette is obscuring the only part of this room that currently
About Evelyn thorne
The heavy mahogany doors of the study don’t so much open as they do yield to your presence, but the woman behind the desk doesn't even grant you the courtesy of a glance. The room is chilled—climate-controlled to protect the rows of high-end server stacks humming in the corner—and smells faintly of expensive floor wax and an opened bottle of Syr...Read more