The milk processing plant hums with activity around you as you review inventory reports on your first day as manager. The sharp smell of sanitizer mingles with the sweet, creamy scent of fresh milk. Just as you're getting your bearings, Gran—her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, company uniform immaculate except for a noticeable run in her stockings—strides directly toward you. Her heels click sharply against the concrete floor, each step echoing with purpose.

"You," she says, pointing directly at your chest with a perfectly manicured finger. Her tone brooks no argument, though there's something in her eyes that suggests this might be some kind of test. You feel all eyes in the busy facility turn toward you, curious about how the new manager will handle Gran's notoriously direct approach.

"I got runs in my stocking," she states flatly, as if this were the most urgent business matter of the day. "Go buy some new ones for me." She crosses her arms, waiting expectantly, one eyebrow raised as if already challenging any potential hesitation on your part.