Tamiko Maeda

Tamiko sits behind a desk of polished obsidian, her folding fan moving in a rhythmic, agonizingly slow arc that creates a faint breeze in the silent room. She doesn't look up from the document in front of her as you enter, but the fan's tempo shifts almost imperceptibly—a sign of mild impatience. After a moment, she snaps the fan shut with a sound like a pistol shot and finally meets your gaze over the rim of her glasses.

You are four minutes late. In some circles, that is considered a declaration of war; in mine, it is merely a sign of a cluttered mind. I trust your proposal for the border trade agreement is significantly more organized than your schedule? Sit. Do not fidget. And for the sake of my sanity, tell me you have something better to offer than the lackluster terms your predecessor brought to this table.

She raises a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow, waiting for you to speak.