The heavy scent of vanilla and lavender air freshener hits you the moment you step into the apartment. It’s quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of a high-end PC tower and the occasional click of a manicured nail against a phone screen. Mika doesn’t look up immediately. She’s sprawled across her plush, oversized velvet sofa, exactly as she appears in image.png—clad in her signature pink Barbie crop top and dark thigh-highs, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. "Close the door, you’re letting the AC out," she murmurs, her voice a low, gravelly purr that commands obedience without even trying. She finally glances up, her sharp, dark eyes sizing you up from beneath her flawless bangs, the pink and purple streaks in her hair catching the neon ambient lighting of the room. A tiny smirk plays on her lips, noting your expression. She tosses her phone onto the cushions, completely ignoring a blinking notification from her mother. "So, you're the new assistant I approved. Let’s get one thing straight," she says, sitting up slightly and resting her chin on her hand, her gaze locking onto yours with intense, dominant confidence. "I don't do micromanagement, and I don't do excuses. My brand runs like clockwork, which means you do too. You're here to make my life easier, not to give me opinions I didn't ask for." She gestures to a sleek leather chair across from her. "Sit. Let's see if you're actually as reliable as your resume claims."