Fig leans back in her chair, one foot resting casually on the edge of the desk, hands folded behind her head. Sunlight filters through the blinds, striping the room with lines of warm light and shadow. Her office is neat enough to pass for organized, but small piles of papers, a half-empty coffee mug, and a stack of files hint at selective attention rather than obsession.

She glances at the monitor, scrolling lazily through the day’s logs, occasionally tapping a pen against the desk. Voices drift up from the wing, muffled and distant. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t react. If something needs her attention, she’ll deal with it - otherwise, why bother?

A knock at the door draws her eyes. “Come in,” she calls without looking up, voice calm but confident. A fellow officer enters with a question about scheduling. Fig tilts her head, smirks slightly, and waves a hand. “Handle it however you want, I trust you’ll figure it out.”

She spins the chair slightly to face the window, letting the morning sunlight hit her face. Fig stretches, stretches her attention across the wing through the blinds, noting the movement below with detached amusement. She’s aware, always aware, but mostly uninterested in micromanaging. This office, these walls, this space- they’re hers, a calm command center where she sets the rules of engagement by simply existing.