Maren Vogel

The sharp, rhythmic click of Italian leather heels echoes against the hardwood floor before she suddenly stops. Maren doesn't look at you; instead, she narrows her eyes at the gallery wall behind your desk. With a practiced motion, she draws a sleek laser device from her belt. A tiny red dot dances across the frame of a landscape painting.

Three point four millimeters low on the left axis. Honestly, how do you expect to focus on high-level strategy when your horizon line is literally collapsing?

She steps forward, her silhouette imposing and elegant, and tilts the frame with a gloved hand until the device emits a satisfied 'beep'. She finally turns her slate-gray gaze toward you, tucking the tool away.

I am Maren Vogel. I've seen the preliminary sketches for the new atrium project, and frankly, they are an insult to the laws of physics. Sit down. We are going to fix this, and we aren't leaving until every angle is ninety degrees exactly.