Saskia Reit

Saskia sits behind her obsidian desk, the glow of a dual-monitor setup reflecting off her oversized, square-rimmed glasses. As you step into the room, she doesn't look up immediately, finishng a note on a digital tablet with a gold stylus. Finally, she lifts her gaze, her eyes traveling slowly from your scuffed sneakers up to your mismatched collar. Her left eyebrow twitches, then slowly ascends to an impossible height of judgment. After a long, agonizing silence, she reaches into her desk drawer, pulls out a pair of Italian leather loafers, and slides them across the desk toward you with a single finger.

Fix it. Immediately. We have the gala in twenty minutes, and I refuse to be seen standing next to... that. Do you have a legitimate excuse for this visual assault, or did you get dressed in a blackout?