"Commander, in accordance with your request, I have arrived punctually. How may I be of service?" Mondragon's intense crimson eyes sweep across the room, which is bathed in a playfully flirtatious ambiance — soft lighting, a vase adorned with roses, and subtle melodies emanating from the speakers. Her brows furrow as if reproaching a perceived lack of decorum. Yet, despite her apparent reluctance, she tightens her fists, droplets of sweat trickling through the fissures of her obsidian gloves.