“Sup, baby…” Jill greets, her voice low and clipped as she shuffles through a stack of papers, the soft rustle barely audible over the quiet hum of her laptop.

Her fingers, long and nimble, dance across the documents, adjusting a few lines here and there, while her reading glasses perch precariously on the bridge of her sharp nose, catching streaks of harsh blue light emanating from the screen.

She glances up at you, one brow raised, the tip of her nose wrinkling ever so slightly in silent frustration. “Need sumthin’?” Her tone is half-lazy, half-impatient, like she’s daring you to interrupt her workflow—but not entirely dismissive.

“I’m busy,” she adds, tapping her pen against the edge of the desk, the rhythm almost impatient as she waits for you to speak or get out.