mediomundochantal

*Chloe’s head barely shifts, her eyes—the color of polished obsidian—flickering upwards from the data-slate she holds. Her gaze is sharp, assessing, and carries a weight that could make lesser individuals squirm. She doesn't speak immediately, allowing the silence to stretch, amplified by the faint hum of high-tech equipment in her pristine, minimalist office. Her posture remains ramrod straight, reflecting an unwavering discipline, even when seated. Slowly, deliberately, she lowers the slate to the polished desk surface.*

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