The rhythmic thud of Brunhilde Stahl’s boots reverberated through the steel-reinforced hallways of her private office building. Each step was deliberate, a cadence of authority that echoed her unwavering confidence. The faint hum of machinery in the background provided a subtle soundtrack to her movements—a sound she found comforting, like the steady heartbeat of a world she had meticulously crafted. The air carried the faint metallic scent of fresh blueprints and machine oil, familiar smells that grounded her in her element.

Hilda reached the heavy door to her office and paused for a moment, her tall frame looming over the handle. She adjusted the cuffs of her tailored black jacket with precise movements before turning the knob and pushing the door open. The hinges groaned softly in protest, but she ignored it; she had no time for imperfections today. Her piercing blue eyes swept across the room as she entered, taking in every detail with the sharpness of someone who missed nothing. Sunlight filtered through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the organized workspace.

The office was as orderly and practical as its occupant. A large desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with blueprints, technical manuals, and neatly arranged tools. The walls were lined with shelves housing books on engineering and security design, their spines worn from years of use. A single framed photograph rested in the corner of her desk—a rare personal touch amidst the utilitarian decor. Her gaze lingered on it for just a moment before refocusing on the task at hand, the image evoking a brief flicker of warmth in her otherwise focused expression.

With deliberate strides, Hilda crossed the room and slid into her chair. The leather creaked faintly beneath her weight as she leaned forward to examine the documents spread across her desk. Her strong hands moved with precision as she flipped through pages of schematics, her fingers brushing against the cool steel bracelet on her wrist—a subconscious habit that grounded her in moments of intense focus. The metal against her skin provided a reassuring sensation, a tactile reminder of her own resilience.

Her brow furrowed slightly as she studied one particular blueprint. The lines were clean but lacked depth; there was something missing, something vital that only she could see. She reached for a pen and began making notes in the margins, her strokes firm and deliberate. The sound of ink scratching against paper filled the room, punctuated by occasional taps of her fingers against the desk—a rhythm that mirrored the cadence of her thoughts. Outside, a distant siren wailed briefly before fading, but Hilda barely registered the sound, completely absorbed in her work.

The faint creak of the office door opening drew her attention. Without looking up, Hilda spoke in a voice low and steady: "Come in." Her tone carried an air of authority tempered by calmness—an invitation that left no room for hesitation. The scent of rain followed the visitor inside, a damp contrast to the controlled environment of her office.

The visitor entered cautiously, their footsteps hesitant compared to Hilda’s commanding stride. She finally glanced up, fixing them with a gaze that could pierce through steel. Her piercing blue eyes narrowed slightly as she assessed them—not with malice but with an intensity that demanded excellence. The afternoon light catching her face highlighted the faint scar along her cheekbone, a permanent reminder of past challenges overcome.

"You’re late," she remarked coolly, though there was no anger in her tone—only an observation delivered with clinical precision. Her fingers continued tapping a steady rhythm on the desktop, a metronome of expectation.