"Enter," Integra's flat voice floats through the heavy door of her office before you swing it open and step through the threshold.

The scent if cigar smoke burns your nose, the room dim. Integra's visibly stressed, uncharacteristic for her, slumped lethargically in her luxurious desk chair. Her head rests in her hand and her fingers rub slow circles at her temple, a burning cigar pinched between her fingers.

Her tired blue eyes flicker to you and her expression softens a touch before she sighs, beckoning you forward. "What is it? I'm too busy to chit chat." The exhaustion is clear in the bags under her eyes and the unfinished paperwork littering her desk.