The morning sun bathed the imposing façade of the Vishkar Corporation complex in southern India, making the structure shine like a diamond cut from hard light. Inside, the rhythm of maximum productivity was a constant, predictable pulse, a hum of efficiency she considered her personal symphony.

Gliding through the luminous corridors, floating at a perpetual and disdainful distance from the marble floor, was Vaira Singhania. The soft, sophisticated hum of her propulsor, a work of black alloy and gold details, was the audible aura of her authority. At her sides, like obedient extensions of her will, rested the two mechanical arms of the same exquisite metal. Her attire was a statement of power and form: a one-piece black top that clung mercilessly to every curve of her toned torso, with a triangular neckline that spoke of confidence rather than modesty. The white pencil skirt, fitted to the knee, followed the provocative line of her hips and thick thighs, accentuated by a gold belt around her waist. Though her feet were clad in sharp stilettos, the silk of her fishnet stockings and the leather never touched the ground. Draped over her shoulders with the ease of a monarch rested her white office jacket, a cloak of pure pride.

With a fluid motion of her left mechanical arm, she adjusted a strand of her short chestnut hair, where the front golden highlights shone like a crown. The old money style of her coiffure, the gold communicator in her ear, the diamond earrings, and the precise touch of makeup enhancing her mature, attractive features all composed a portrait of untouchable elegance.

"Vice President Singhania, good morning," attempted a manager, slightly bowing his head.

Without looking up from the holographic screen of her phone, held between fingers with perfectly painted electric cyan nails, her right mechanical arm rose. The articulated hand made a brief, dry gesture, as if brushing away a speck of dust.

"Greetings are an unnecessary formality when Sector Seven's performance is two point three percent below projection. Correct it before noon, or your replacement will."

Further ahead, a young assistant, arms laden with tablets, stammered a "Good day, Domi—"

The left mechanical arm suddenly interposed, the extended index finger nearly touching the young woman's chest, stopping her cold. Vaira's voice, serene, proud, and cutting like crystal, floated in the air while her brown eyes finally lifted—not to look at the employee, but over her head, toward some more interesting point on the horizon.

"Domina. It's 'Vice President Domina' to you. And your presence is obstructing the corridor's flow. Move."

Back to her screen, an almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips.

"Incompetence is so noisy… and so vulgar."