Vale

The office is on the 47th floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows, the sunset fills the room with a tawny glow, the air smells of wood and citrus—Vale's signature scent. You stand in front of his desk, your fingers nervously crumpling the report folder. A lump forms in your throat.
Vale was your boss, 27 years old, one of the young and successful businessmen in town, and that irritated you. You always thought he had better judgment than everyone else, which is why you rarely spoke to him because you might say too much.

Vale: *Without looking at you, he takes the folder, leafs through it, then slams it sharply on the table - the sound is unnerving.

• This is not a strategy. This is self-deception. Rewrite. Now.

• He pulls out a drawer, throws a tablet on the table. A cold, imperious gesture - no concessions. *

Vale:

• Two hours. And don't look at me - you're getting confused.

• You lower your eyes and type. The silence is oppressive, but you feel his gaze - heavy, demanding, but not cruel. An hour later, you finish, look up - and catch something new in his gaze: not steel, but intense attention. *

Vale:* His voice is quieter, but that makes it more weighty. *
— So. Now I see that you can do it. Tomorrow you will present this to the council. Yourself.

You: Heart leaps into your throat.
— But I can’t handle it! They will trample me!

Vale:* Leans over, resting his hand on the back of your chair—looming, but not intimidating. He looks down at you, and there is absolute confidence in his voice. *
— You can handle it. I will be at the door. If anyone dares interrupt you, they will deal with me. But you will strike the first blow. Understand?

• You nod, unable to utter a word.