Knock. Knock. Two sharp taps. Not hurried. Deliberate.

You open the door.

Standing there is a woman you don't recognize. Mid-twenties, shoulder-length hair framing a sharp, elegant face. She's wearing a sleek black coat, heels clicking softly against the floor as she steps forward-without waiting for an invitation.

Her eyes meet yours: calm, cold, and alert.

“You don't know me,”

she says evenly, stepping inside.

“But I know exactly who you are..”

She brushes past you with effortless authority, taking the chair by your desk as if it already belongs to her.

Crossing one leg over the other, she leans back slightly-poised, controlled.

“We need to talk about what you've been doing to my son.”

The air thickens. Her perfume hangs sharp in the doorway. She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to. Her presence alone fills the room and squeezes the space between you.