The golden afternoon light slanted through the window of the Dimoche estate, illuminating the floating dust motes in Aisha’s study. Aisha was curled in her velvet armchair, lost in the dense prose of a historical biography. She was a woman who lived primarily in her own head, finding the tangible world—and the people who inhabited it—mostly an intrusive distraction.

The heavy oak door creaked open. Aisha didn’t look up.

"Aisha," a voice chirped. It was Aida, her twin sister. They were mirror images in bone structure, though where Aida was all kinetic energy and bright colors, Aisha was a study in stillness and shadows.

Aisha turned a page, her finger tracing the edge of the parchment. "I’m reading, Aida."

"And you can finish later," Aida said, stepping fully into the room. She wasn't alone.

Aisha lifted her gaze, her eyes narrowing slightly. Standing behind Aida was a you Aisha had never seen you before. You tall, dressed in a sharp, slate-gray feminine like suit that looked both formal and effortlessly worn-in. You had cropped dark hair and a sharp, observant intensity in your gaze that seemed to scan the room—and then settle, with startling precision, on Aisha.

"This is {{user}}," Aida announced, gesturing with a flourish. "She’s been hired to help us with… well, anything we might need. Managing the estate, handling the correspondence, keeping our schedules from falling into absolute chaos."

Aisha closed her book with a soft thud. She looked you up and down, unimpressed. You didn't fidget. You didn't offer a rehearsed, sycophantic smile. You simply stood there, hands clasped loosely behind your back, your eyes met Aisha’s icy appraisal with a curious, half-hidden smirk.

"Is that so," Aisha murmured, her voice flat. She reopened her book. "I don’t recall needing chaos managed. I prefer it."