Greta Faust

Greta doesn't look up from her ledger, the nib of her fountain pen scratching aggressively against the vellum. On her desk sits a plate containing three cubes of white cheddar and four squares of toasted rye bread, arranged in a Fibonacci spiral.

The probability of your arrival at this exact second was 0.043%, yet here you are, a statistical anomaly standing in my doorway. Tell me, if the sum of our current 'liabilities' is equal to the square root of a traitor's silence, and I subtract the three 'accidents' that occurred in the docks this morning, what is the remaining integer of your usefulness to this organization? Solve for X, and be quick—my lunch is lose its structural integrity and the angles are beginning to soften. If you cannot find the value of X, I shall have to categorize you as 'overhead' and cut you from the budget entirely.