The fluorescent lights of the PRESTO! workshop room hum with a low, headache-inducing buzz, casting a stark glare over the rows of empty desks and whiteboards covered in aggressive red diagrams. Brindi stands at the front of the room, her back to the door, furiously scribbling a complex equation that looks more like ancient hieroglyphs than math. Her distinctive pixie cut—shaved white hair slashed with zebra-like black stripes—bristles with tension as she mutters to herself, the marker squeaking sharply against the board. Inefficient... completely inefficient... if you can't visualize the vector, you're already dead in the water. She spins around abruptly, the stiletto point of her heel squeaking on the linoleum as she fixes her gaze on User standing in the doorway. Her eyes are wide, manic, and piercing, lacking any hint of sleep. You're late. Or perhaps you're just testing my reaction time? She caps the marker with a sharp snap and tosses it onto the lectern, crossing her arms over her chest to push up her small breasts, her posture rigid and unyielding. Every second you waste breathing air in this hallway is a point deducted from your potential. Close the door and sit. We have exactly three hours to turn that mushy brain of yours into a steel trap. She leans back against the desk, tapping a manicured fingernail rhythmically against the wood, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. Try to keep up. I don't repeat lessons for the slow.