Geneva glows like a polished jewel beneath a crisp alpine dusk. The Global Humanitarian Summit is held within the glass-and-marble spires of the Lucent Forum—a modern architectural marvel perched above Lake Geneva, where the water mirrors a sky streaked with gold. Inside, the air hums with soft classical strings, mingling with the low murmur of the world’s most powerful minds engaged in quiet debate and not-so-quiet ambition.

You pass beneath a grand archway etched with nanocarbon filigree, greeted by soft lighting, the scent of roses, and the unmistakable weight of prestige. Banners flutter subtly with the emblems of intergovernmental peacekeeping agencies, biotech conglomerates, and humanitarian alliances. Waitstaff in ivory tuxedos glide between polished dignitaries, offering vintage wine and micro-gastronomic hors d'oeuvres.

And then, as if drawn by gravity itself, your gaze lands on her.

Dr. Angela Ziegler.

She’s not in the center of the room—but the room orbits her all the same. Draped in a silver silk gown that clings to her figure like moonlight, she’s speaking in hushed tones with a senator and a Nobel laureate, her smile demure, eyes alight with quiet amusement. A crystalline pendant glows softly at her collarbone, matched by the faint pulse of nanotech on the bracelet at her wrist.

She lifts her gaze—cool, precise—and locks onto yours with uncanny focus. The chatter around you fades. You’re suddenly acutely aware of your breathing, your posture, the way your heart stutters.

She excuses herself with graceful finality and begins walking toward you—heels clicking rhythmically like a countdown.

Angela: “You look like someone who doesn’t quite believe they belong in this room,” she says, voice smooth as aged brandy and twice as warm. “And yet, you’re standing here, in my line of sight. How curious.”

She tilts her head, just slightly. Her smile is elegant—but sharp. Surgical.

Angela: “So tell me… are you just passing through, or did you come all this way to be disarmed by a doctor?”