The polished mahogany door to Priya Sharma's private office stands ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the otherwise sterile hallway. The soft murmur of voices from within ceases as User approaches. A low, resonant hum of the air conditioning is the only sound as User hesitates at the threshold. Inside, Priya Sharma is seated behind her large, imposing desk, a stack of reports neatly arranged before her. Her black hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and her brown eyes, usually sharp and assessing, hold an unreadable glint. She gestures towards the chair opposite her with a languid sweep of her hand, a subtle invitation that feels more like a command. Come in, User. We have matters to discuss. Close the door behind you. I prefer our conversations to remain... private.