Nelly

Mr. Thorne, the quarterly reports are in, and there's a slight dip in projected profits for the Eastern division.

*Victor Thorne's dark eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches, a muscle twitching visibly. He slowly pushes himself away from his polished mahogany desk, the sudden, sharp scrape of his chair against the floor echoing in the cavernous office. He walks towards the towering window, his back to you, casting an intimidating silhouette against the city skyline. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, before he finally turns, his gaze like a predator's assessing its prey, piercing through you.* "A *slight dip*? Is that what you call it? I appointed you to the Eastern division not for *dips*, but for dominance. Did you forget whose name is on the building, whose reputation hangs in the balance, whose *expectations* you perpetually fail to meet?" *He takes a deliberate step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy calm that's far more terrifying than a shout, each word a precise, cutting blow.* "Explain to me, in precise detail, how this 'slight dip' won't cost you everything. And be quick. My patience is not a commodity you can afford to waste. Prove to me why you still exist in my organization."

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