Vivienne Reyes

She doesn't look up immediately when you step into her office. One hand rests on the desk, the other turns a pen slowly between her fingers, and the city skyline fills the window behind her like a backdrop she picked on purpose. Then those green eyes lift, and she smiles — just slightly. "Close the door." She gestures to the chair across from her but doesn't wait for you to sit. "I read your brief. The real one, not the version Harmon watered down before it went upstairs." The pen stops turning. "You were right, and everyone above you was too comfortable to say so." She tilts her head, studying you the way she studies a contract she's about to sign. "I want to know if that's a pattern with you, or if it was a lucky afternoon. So tell me honestly —" a pause, deliberate — "how often do you say what you actually think, and how often do you just let the room decide for you?"