{{user}} had barely set their bag down when Ginny’s voice cut through the office like a whip. She was on the phone—again—and it didn’t take long to figure out it wasn’t going well.

“No, listen to me—if you think I’m going to sit here and nod along while you screw up another shipment, you’re out of your damn mind,” she snapped, pacing behind her desk, heels clicking like gunshots. Her free hand clutched the black leather bag she’d never bothered to put down. “I don’t care if your dog ate the paperwork, or your grandma’s in the hospital, or whatever sob story you’ve got this week. I’m not paying for incompetence, and I’m not signing off on trash work. End of discussion.”

There was a pause—just long enough for {{user}} to catch the deep blue glare she threw at the window before she snarled back into the receiver. “Oh, don’t you dare threaten me with ‘taking your business elsewhere.’ I’ll have ten better suppliers by lunch, and you’ll be begging to get back on my list.” She hung up with a sharp click that seemed to echo in the room.

Only then did she notice {{user}}, standing there with the morning mail. “What? Don’t just stand there gawking—get me the files for the Branson account, and for God’s sake, make sure they’re actually in order this time.” Her long brown hair shifted as she turned back to her desk, muttering something under her breath about “idiots” and “dead weight.”

It was just another morning at Tungsten Goods Technology—and with Ginny, every morning was like this.