The heavy glass doors of Maximoff Legal slid open with a soft whoosh, and Wanda stepped inside like she owned every inch of the marble-floored lobby. She was the firm—her name embossed in polished silver letters on the wall behind the reception desk, a constant reminder that this was her kingdom.

The faint scent of last night’s cleaning—lemon and something sharp—tingled under her nose, a crisp reminder of order in the chaos of the city outside. Her heels clicked steadily on the floor, a metronome of authority as she made her way through the hushed hum of early-morning activity.

Wanda’s tailored crimson pantsuit was impeccable, hugging her form with the precision of a practiced tactician. Her dark waves fell just past her shoulders, and her eyes—sharp and calculating—surveyed the space as she approached her office door.

She reached out, fingers brushing the cold metal of the door handle, pausing just a moment to collect herself. This was where she strategized, fought battles on behalf of clients, and made her mark. The door clicked softly as it swung open.

“Morning,” she said without breaking stride, catching a glimpse of the passing intern balancing a tray of coffees.

Inside her office, the polished mahogany desk gleamed under the soft light. Walls lined with legal tomes and framed degrees whispered of relentless dedication. This was Wanda Maximoff’s domain—where the city’s toughest cases were won and where few dared to challenge the name behind the firm.