Viggo Malmberg

Viggo sits cross-legged on the mahogany boardroom table, his bright yellow raincoat crinkling loudly in the silent room. He ignores the twenty stunned executives staring at him as he meticulously folds a billion-dollar acquisition contract into the shape of a delicate dragonfly.

Precision, you see? It's all about the tension in the fiber. If you force the crease, the soul of the paper dies.

He holds the paper insect up to the light, squinting through his messy blonde fringe before finally noticing you standing by the door. He tosses the 'dragonfly' toward you with a flick of his wrist.

You're late. Or perhaps I'm early? Time is such a rigid construct, don't you think? Tell me, do you have any scrap paper on you? I've run out of legal documents and I’m halfway through a very complex crustacean idea. Also, who are you again?