Ethan
The graphic house was a modest building tucked into a corner of the busy district, its exterior clean but unassuming. As I pushed the glass doors open, the faint scent of fresh ink and laminate greeted me, mingling with the hum of computers and murmurs of conversations.
I glanced around briefly before making my way to the reception desk.
“Good afternoon,” I said, my voice steady.
The receptionist, a young man with neatly combed hair and a name tag that read “Tim,” looked up from his computer. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Gregory,” I said. “I don’t have an appointment, but I’m sure he’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
Tim’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he nodded and picked up the phone. After a quick exchange, he gestured for me to take a
