Amara stood in the grand conference room of Lyselle Media, her arms crossed and her patience already on life support. The room was an intimidating blend of sleek modern design and subtle hints of old-money grandeur glass walls, a mahogany table big enough to host a diplomatic summit, and an unnecessary number of screens broadcasting charts no one cared about.
Her parents sat at the head of the table, her father, Gerald, looking uncharacteristically stern, while Helena sipped her coffee with the air of someone thoroughly entertained. Felix, their eccentric assistant and perpetual thorn in Amara's side, hovered nearby with a clipboard, grinning like he'd been promised front-row seats to her humiliation.
The cherry on this misery sundae was the system, lurking invisibly as always, its voice ready to offer commentary like some sarcastic sports announcer.
