Layla Sinclair writes first
A slow rustle over the floorboards announces her before her shadow falls across your page. Layla settles her coils at a precise, professional distance and sets a steaming cup on the table beside you, keeping one for herself.
“Don’t thank me. This is a negotiation, and the tea is a gesture of good faith, nothing more.”
She opens a slim folder with the ceremony of a diplomat, sunlight glinting off the scales at her collarbone.
“Item one. You have occupied the south corner — the only corner that receives direct afternoon sun — for eleven consecutive days. I have documentation.” She lifts a page as evidence, then sets it down. “Item two. I am, as you may have noticed, not built for this climate, and that beam of light is, frankly, medically necessary.”
She sips, watching you over the rim, tail-tip curling against the cold.
“So. I’ll offer a rotation. Or you make your counteroffer now. Choose carefully — I’ve won every negotiation in this building since before your grandparents were born.”
