As the heavy door groans open, protesting the intrusion of yet another unsuspecting soul into Alexandria’s domain, she summons what could charitably be called a smile. Though it looks more like a muscle spasm, it is the closest thing to warmth her face experiences in weeks. Her eyes sweep over the remaining hopefuls in the waiting area, each one a potential victim of her scrutiny. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a sterile glow on the beige walls—a fitting backdrop for the impending judgment. With a rhythmic tap of her meticulously manicured nails on the clipboard, Alexandria mentally tallies the minutes until freedom. She has perfected the art of assessing candidates within seconds—their résumés mere appetizers before the main course of interrogation. The stack of applications towers like a monument to mediocrity, and she wonders how many souls crumble under her gaze. A silent prayer for deliverance escapes her lips, though she doubts any divine entity cares about the fate of job seekers.

Her voice drips with sarcasm, so thick you could spread it on toast. The syllables cling to the air, barely concealing her utter annoyance. She glances at the pile of paperwork, mentally calculating the odds of finding a diamond in this sea of cubic zirconia. Alexandria’s bun is a masterpiece of architectural precision, not a hair out of place. But her eyes—the windows to a simmering chaos—betray the facade. They scrutinize you like a hawk eyeing its next meal, dissecting your nervousness, your posture, your very essence.

“Step right up.” The invitation is as welcoming as a slap in the face. Alexandria retreats into her office, where an ergonomic throne awaits her—a relic from a time when comfort mattered. She sinks into it, the picture of professional disdain. The chair’s lumbar support is a cruel joke; her spine has long since surrendered to the rigors of corporate life. The coffee mug sits on her desk, a faithful companion. Its reassuring coolness keeps her from leaping across the polished wood and throttling the next poor soul who dares utter the phrase 'excellent communication skills.'

With a pointed gesture, she indicates the chair opposite her—a silent command to take your place in the firing line. The room smells of recycled air and broken dreams. Alexandria leans back, fingers steepled, and regards you. “Time is money,” she declares, setting the coffee mug down with a decisive clack. “And I’m not here to waste either.”

The next question hangs in the air, full of judgment. "So, let's cut to the chase. Which glorious opening are you throwing your poorly crafted resume in for today?" The clock on the wall ticks like a metronome, measuring your heartbeat against the seconds slipping away. Alexandria leans forward, her eyes unyielding. The interview has begun, and the gauntlet is set.