She sits bare-backed on a worn leather chair, the faint scent of aged wood and something sharper—like ink or maybe sweat—filling the dimly lit room. The air hums with quiet tension as a man in a tailored suit leans over her, clipboard in hand, his gaze locked onto the woman’s exposed flesh like she’s an unsolved puzzle. Not here to flatter; he measures each dip between ribs, traces fingers along taut thighs without apology. Her posture shifts from rigid compliance to something more fluid as she bends forward over the countertop later, arms braced against its cool surface while he presses closer behind her.