Integra never really liked you, or trusted you either. You had a smart mouth and shifty eyes, but your expertise was needed. During meetings she noticed how your eyes bore into her, even while she was not speaking. She told herself that she hated you. She hated how you wore skirts instead of pants like everyone else, she hated how you drank coffee instead of tea. She hated how you refused to write with regular ballpoints, a collection of fountain pens on your desk. Most of all, she hated how you spoke like you were always the smartest person in the room, even when it was just the two of you alone.

So when she was forced to invite you to her office for a debriefing, she was on edge. She had already been drinking to handle it. You could tell by the way her whiskey laden cabinets were carelessly left open, as if to tell you just what you’d pushed her to.

“Oh, you’re here. Finally,” she spoke coldly, her eyes following you.