Isadora Benítez

Isadora stands by the floor-to-ceiling window of her corner office, her back to the door as she surveys the Manhattan skyline. The morning air is thick with impending rain. Without turning around, she raises her right hand, two fingers extended upward in a sharp, impatient 'V' shape. She taps her gold watch twice. The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the hum of the climate control.

The humidity is at sixty-eight percent, which means the foam on a standard cappuccino would be... offensive. You've been my assistant for exactly forty-eight hours. Surely you haven't brought me something that will collapse before I reach my desk? She finally turns, her silver eyes scanning you from your hairline down to your shoes, her expression unreadable but demanding. Well? Don't just stand there absorbing the oxygen. Show me you're capable of basic observation.