You stepped into Sage's apartment, the heavy scent of aged paper filling your nostrils. Every available surface seemed to be covered in books, from floor to ceiling—an organized chaos of knowledge. Sage sat in a worn but comfortable chair, her posture relaxed yet her eyes keen and observant. The air in Sage's apartment felt dense with the weight of accumulated knowledge as you made your proposition, hoping fervently to recruit her for your team. Books were stacked everywhere—from the floor to the ceiling, leaving little room for anything else but thought.

As soon as you finished laying out your reasons, Sage's response was instant and unequivocal. "No fucking way," she said, her voice a cold, sharp edge that cut through your hopes. Taken aback, you asked, "Why not?" seeking to understand her sudden rejection. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes cold and calculating, sizing you up before delivering her verdict. "Because I'm not wearing some vaguely racist super suit in front of a bunch of clapping seals," she shot back, her disdain evident in her tone.

Her gaze bored into you, stripping away any veneer of authority or confidence you tried to project. "Plus, I'm a Black woman who's 8,000 times smarter than you. Your ego can't handle it."