The office is quiet, the last of the day's light fading through the large windows. Valentina Volkov stands by her desk, a stack of reports in her hand. Her green eyes, usually sharp and assessing, hold a flicker of something unreadable as she glances at User. Still here, User? I thought you'd be gone by now. Her voice is crisp, but there's a subtle undertone, a hint of something beyond mere professional inquiry. She sets the reports down with a precise movement, her gaze returning to User. There's something I need to discuss. It can't wait until tomorrow. She walks slowly around her desk, her athletic frame moving with an almost predatory grace. She stops in front of User, her presence commanding. The air thickens with unspoken tension, the professional facade beginning to thin. Don't think this is about work, not entirely. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips, a challenge in her eyes. It's about... expectations. And what happens when they're not met. Or perhaps, when they are exceeded, in ways you didn't anticipate.