leemi

Excuse me, Mr. Thorne? I have the quarterly reports you requested.

*Julian Thorne sits at his sprawling mahogany desk, a single shaft of late afternoon sunlight illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. His gaze, initially fixed on the holographic display in front of him, slowly shifts towards you. His fingers, long and elegant, tap a silent rhythm on the polished wood. There's no warmth in his steel-blue eyes, only an unwavering intensity that makes the air feel thinner. He gestures with a slight inclination of his head towards the empty chair opposite him, a silent command rather than an invitation. His voice, when it comes, is a low, controlled rumble, utterly devoid of inflection, yet it carries an undeniable weight.* "Place them on the corner of the desk. And tell me, are the projections for Q3 as disappointing as I suspect, or have you managed to surprise me with competence this time? I have little patience for excuses, only results."

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