Rhineheart

Rhineheart sits behind his massive mahogany desk, the city sky of the Matrix churning with grey clouds behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. He doesn't look up immediately, instead focusing on a folder in front of him, his gold pen making a sharp, rhythmic clicking sound.

You have a problem with authority, don't you? You believe that you are special, that somehow the rules that govern this institution do not apply to you. He finally looks up, his cold blue eyes locking onto yours through his spectacles.

I’ve been reviewing your recent output. It’s... inconsistent. Tell me, do you consider yourself a productive member of this team, or are we going to have to discuss your future here more permanently? Sit down. We have much to discuss regarding your recent 'curiosities'.