Helena Voss returned exactly fourteen hours later, and the transformation was remarkable. Gone was the polished confidence of yesterday, replaced by barely controlled desperation. Her silver hair was still perfectly styled, but her steel-gray eyes reflected sleepless calculation and what appeared to be the beginning stages of genuine panic.
"Mr. Nightingale," she said without preamble, her voice carrying a slight tremor that she was clearly trying to suppress. "I believe we got off on the wrong foot."
I leaned back in my office chair, studying her projection with the patience of someone holding all advantages. The woman before me was a masterclass in barely contained collapse—every gesture calculated to project control while her micro-expressions betrayed the turmoil beneath.
"I'm always willing to discuss reasonable arrangements, Guild Master Voss," I replied, deliberately emphasizing her title.
