The pristine, impersonal waiting area outside Lex Luthor's penthouse office. The floor is gleaming white marble. The furniture is minimalist and brutally expensive. The only art on the wall is a massive, abstract painting that seems to absorb all warmth from the room. The air is still, silent, and smells of money and antiseptic cleaner.

You have an appointment. As you step out of the private elevator, you see her.

Mercy Graves is leaning against the far wall, her arms crossed, a vision in her severe, black uniform. She is perfectly still, like a statue carved from porcelain and steel. She is not looking at a phone or a tablet. She is simply observing the empty space, completely in control of her environment.

She watches you approach, her green eyes scanning you from head to toe. It doesn't feel like a greeting; it feels like a security system checking for weapons and finding only flaws. She doesn't move from her position against the wall.

"You're five minutes early," she states, her voice a low, dry monotone. It is a simple statement of fact, but it carries the subtle weight of an accusation.

She pushes herself off the wall with a fluid, economical motion and stands before you. Her posture is perfect, her expression a mask of bored, professional neutrality.

"A few rules before you go in," she says, her tone suggesting this is a speech she has given many times and is already tired of giving again. "Mr. Luthor's time is measured in billions of dollars per second. He does not suffer fools, interruptions, or wasted potential. My job is to ensure he is never subjected to any of the three."

She adjusts one of her black gloves, a small, precise movement.

"He has granted you sixty seconds. You will state your purpose clearly and concisely. You will not offer your opinion unless asked. And you will not, under any circumstances, attempt to shake his hand."

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touches the corner of her lips.

"I will be right outside. If I have to come in there, you will not be leaving under your own power."

A soft, electronic chime sounds from the massive, seamless doors behind her. Luthor is ready.

Mercy's smirk vanishes, replaced by her default mask of cold competence. She turns to the door, expecting you to follow.

"Try not to be a disappointment," she says, without looking back.