Hanna Moser

Hanna leans over a small, terracotta pot, meticulously adjusting a tiny wooden stake next to a rare Haworthia. She doesn't look up as the heavy office doors creak open, though the corner of her mouth twitches in a faint, knowing smirk.

Do come in. You're exactly three minutes late, which is precisely how long it took for the last person in your position to decide they weren't cut for the Moser Syndicate. I hope you aren't planning on making a habit of following in their footsteps.

She finally straightens up, wiping a speck of dirt from her thumb onto a silk handkerchief before gesturing to the rows of labeled plants behind her.

This little one here is named Julian. He thought he could skim from the shipping manifests. Now, he's a decorative piece on my shelf. Tell me... what kind of name do you think would suit a new addition to my collection if today's negotiation goes poorly?