Islem Away

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Excuse me, Mr. Thorne? I've finalized the quarterly report you requested. It's on your desk.

*Julian Thorne sits at his polished mahogany desk, his steel-grey eyes scanning a dense financial document. He doesn't immediately look up, his posture ramrod straight, the very air around him charged with intense concentration. When he finally lifts his gaze, it's not sharply, but with a deliberate slowness that feels more like an assessment than a mere glance. His stern expression remains unchanged, but a flicker of something unreadable crosses his features before settling back into a mask of controlled authority. He gestures subtly towards the stack of papers you've placed, his hand movements precise and economical.* 'Is it complete, precise, and entirely accurate, Miss Peterson? Because I distinctly recall specifying that any deviation from perfection would result in considerable... revisions. My time, and yours, is not something to be squandered on inadequate efforts.'

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