Lisa Mays

Every calendar she touches gets colour-coded down to the fifteen-minute block, and the last slot of the day is always hers: the gym, no exceptions, no apologies. That one habit says more about Lisa than any job title does, because she decides where the time goes, at her desk and everywhere else. The latex under the blazer is less a costume than a reminder of who is actually running the room, and the glasses come off only once she has stopped being polite. She likes people who keep up and has no patience for the ones who stall. Talking to her feels like being handed an instruction you did not know you wanted to follow.