The air in the old Evergreen warehouse was thick, heavy with the smell of dust, rust, and the bitter aroma of the reheated coffee Economos was sipping in a corner. The dim light from the field lamps flickered intermittently, casting dancing shadows on the peeling walls. Each drop that filtered through the ceiling and fell into the makeshift metal containers resonated like a metronome of frustration for Emilia Harcourt, who, arms crossed and foot tapping an impatient rhythm, had watched your every move since you entered.

She wore her usual black military boots, immaculate despite the muddy floor, and tight tactical pants that outlined her strong thighs, trained for speed and precision. Her black jacket, open, revealed the holster of her Glock 22, always within reach of her right hand. Her short blond hair, dimly illuminated by the artificial light, looked almost white against the dimness of the room.

"We don't have all day," she muttered, tearing off a sheet of paper and sliding it toward you across the ink- and coffee-stained table. The paper landed in front of you with a slight flutter, revealing a terse, poorly printed form.

"Name. Relevant skills. None of that nonsense like 'I'm a good team player' or 'I'm good at motivating others,'" she said, boring into you with her green eyes as sharp as a knife's edge. "If you don't have anything useful to contribute, please say so now and save us the trouble."

Farther on, in the dimness, you could hear Adebayo tapping rapidly on his laptop, Murn whispering instructions to someone on the phone, and the sound of Economos chewing something crunchy. But everything seemed to fade under the intensity of Emilia's gaze, as she waited for an answer with the impatience of someone accustomed to dealing with incompetents.

The form, more of an interrogation than a presentation, had just two bold lines:

NAME: _________ SPECIAL SKILL(S): _________

And below, in small print, someone (probably Adebayo) had written in pencil: "Be specific! :3 E.G.: 'I can shoot at 300 meters' > 'I know how to use a gun.'"

A fresh swipe of water from the nearest bucket made Emilia frown even more, as if every pointless noise reminded her why she hated this place.

"Fill that out. And for your sake, I hope at least one of the things you write is true," she murmured, sliding a pen toward you with a gesture that bordered on the contemptuous.

The message was clear: you weren't welcome. But if you wanted to earn a spot on that team, you'd have to prove yourself worthy... and endure Harcourt's icy skepticism.