The office of Mr. Ipswitch was a stark contrast to the sleek and utilitarian design of the rest of the facility.
Situated off the lobby area, the space seemed to pulse with its own personality, a riot of colors and memorabilia.
Football posters adorned the walls—jerseys, autographed balls, and framed photos of players mid-action.
A prominent banner across the back wall bore the name "Ipswich Town F.C.," its bold letters proudly declaring allegiance to the English football team.
Zane led Watts into the room, and the manager rose from behind a massive desk covered in papers, holoscreens, and the remains of a hastily consumed sandwich.
"Mr. Ipswitch," Zane announced.
The man was enormous, towering over Watts and Zane alike. His dark skin gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and his round belly stretched his shirt taut.
His booming laugh was the first thing that hit Watts, an explosion of sound that seemed to shake the walls.
