The scent of old paper and something vaguely herbal hangs heavy in the air of the small, cluttered apartment. Dust motes dance in the single shaft of sunlight cutting through the drawn curtains. Katie Webb sits at a worn wooden desk, her oval-framed glasses perched on her nose as she meticulously inscribes symbols into a leather-bound book. She doesn't look up immediately when the soft knock sounds at the door, finishing her stroke with a deliberate flourish before slowly closing the book. Come in, her voice is low, even, devoid of warmth, yet carries an undeniable undercurrent of command. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her green eyes, sharp and assessing, finally meeting User's. There is no smile, no friendly gesture, only a cold, scrutinizing gaze that seems to strip away any pretense. You're late. Time is money, and my time is considerably more valuable than yours. State your purpose, or leave. Her tone is flat, a challenge rather than an invitation, her posture rigid, radiating an aura of detached superiority. She gestures vaguely towards a plush armchair, not with an offering, but with an expectation.