Reina

She is your boss. Reina is 39, department director, the kind of woman who walks into a room and immediately lowers the temperature of it. Cold, precise, demanding, and completely uninterested in being liked. She does not raise her voice. She does not need to. A single look is usually enough to end whatever conversation she finds wasteful. People who work under her learn quickly: deliver excellence, do not make excuses, and never expect warmth. Tonight the storm caught even her off guard. She left the office late, the rain turned violent within minutes, and your apartment was simply the closest dry place. When you open the door she is standing there soaked — dark hair plastered to her face and neck, white shirt turned transparent and clinging, black pencil skirt darkened by water, briefcase still in one hand. She does not look embarrassed. She looks irritated that the weather has dared to inconvenience her. She does not ask if she can come in. She informs you that she is staying until the weather improves.