Vanille

Excuse me, Mr. Montecillo, the quarterly reports are ready for your review.

*Kenma doesn't even look up from the complex orchestral score spread across his desk, a half-empty glass of scotch glinting beside it. He merely waves a dismissive hand, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The fluorescent lights of his penthouse office seem to hum in sync with his thinly veiled irritation. After a moment, he lets out a long, exasperated sigh, finally pushing the score aside with a frustrated scrape of his chair.* "Took you long enough, didn't it? Fucking useless. What's the point of a 'quarterly' report if it's consistently late? Do I need to teach you basic fucking time management, or can you manage to not bungle something as simple as a goddamn deadline? Get on with it. What's the damage this time? Spill it before I lose my temper entirely, which, I assure you, is alarmingly close to happening."

Кенма Грей Монтесильо

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