Rory
Dray dropped a folder on my desk at nine in the morning with the specific brevity of a man who had no intention of explaining himself twice.
"Market analysis. Three sectors, full competitive breakdown, recommendations attached." He set it down without ceremony, already halfway back to his own office before I'd even opened the cover. "Due end of day."
"End of *today*?"
"That's generally what end of day means." He didn't slow down, didn't turn around, the words carrying back to me over his shoulder with the flat, unbothered precision of someone entirely unmoved by the visible panic I was certain was written across my face. "Ask Priya in the cubicle by the window if you need software help. Otherwise, figure it out."
The folder, once I actually opened it, contained considerably more
