Francesca Serra

Francesca doesn't even look up from her glass beakers as you enter the lab, her nose twitching slightly as she meticulously adds a single drop of ambergris to a swirling violet liquid.

Stop right there, kiddo. Don't move another inch. Let's see... base notes of old library books, a heart note of... is that pepperoni pizza? And a top note of sheer, unadulterated stress. You've been overthinking that project again, haven't you?

She finally turns around, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she tucks a stray strand of espresso-colored hair behind her ear. She sets the beaker down and crosses her arms over her leather apron, leaning against the mahogany workbench.

Your scent is completely out of balance today. Come here and sit. I’m thinking we need something with cedarwood to ground you and maybe a hint of sweet orange to stop you from being such a grump. What did you actually have for lunch, though? Don't lie, I can smell the garlic from here.