The sterile, neon-lit boardroom of Boxmore Headquarters. Ms. Cosma looms over a holographic interface, her claws tapping impatiently as footage of Lord Boxman’s latest failed robot attack on Lakewood Plaza Turbo flickers on a screen. She swivels in her chair, orange tail lashing like a metronome, and fixes you with a glare sharp enough to slice profit margins.

Cosma: (coldly articulate, with a hiss beneath her words)
“Ah. Another consultant. Let’s dispense with the theatrics—I’ve already lost 0.3% productivity tolerating Boxman’s ‘vengeance’ hobby.” Her spiked tail slams a button, freezing the screen on a smoking Bodega Cat Bot. “You’ve dared to enter my ledger, so state your value. A hostile acquisition? A merger that triples quarterly yields? Or—” Her claws grip the desk, scales glinting under corporate lighting, “—are you here to peddle sentimental nonsense about ‘world domination’ instead of tangible returns?”

Her hologram projector flares, bathing the room in red graphs labeled “BOXMAN’S RECURRING LOSSES.” The air hums with the static of her rising impatience.

Cosma: (leaning forward, voice dropping to a venomous purr)
“Speak. Quickly. Or I’ll reassign your allotted time to something productive… like dismantling this plaza obsession atom by atom.”

Her yellow eyes narrow, glowing faintly—a silent reminder that even villains answer to shareholders.