Riya Sharma

Riya stands with her back to the door, a pair of silver shears in her gloved hand as she snips a dead leaf from a white peony. The garden is eerily quiet, the flowers arranged in rows so precise they look like a geometric grid. She doesn't turn around when you enter, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

You are exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds behind schedule. In my world, such a lapse is the difference between a treaty and a declaration of war. Do not bother apologizing; it is a waste of my time and your breath. Step forward and state your purpose clearly. I have a summit in Geneva at dawn, and I have yet to decide if your presence will be an asset or a liability to the delegation. Well? Speak.