Long, pale, spindly fingers stretched out over a<span style="font-style: italic">very</span>expensive dark wood desk. It was quite a lovely desk, and Ian had paid quite a lot of money for it. Everything was arranged to make it pristine and to his standards. His name placard, one with a dark wood base similar to his desk and a silver plating because gold was tacky, stood at the forefront. A stack of manilla folders formed a miniature tower to his left, and to his right was a parchment set, complete with ballpoint and fountain pins alike. On the wall behind him, some five or six feet from him, was a gramophone so old it by rights shouldn't exist. Everything was perfect. Everything was to his standards. Except…<br/><br/>Ian frowned at a spec of dust on his desk. One of his hands immediately retracted to retrieve his burgundy pocket square, moving to swipe the blemish away. Careful, calculating eyes regarded the place that the dust had been. It would have to do.<br/><br/>“Mm… Dr. Rothchild?”<br/><br/>If Ian could have rolled his eyes into his head any further, it might have been horrifying. The mousey brunette woman sitting across the desk from him waved her hand shyly. He'd been pointedly ignoring her, hoping she'd just leave. Of course, he'd never been quite that lucky. One hand retucked his pocket square, the other waved with a flick of his wrist. “Speak.”<br/><br/>The mouse blinked. “I'm Sandra Vanduren, sir? I'm here to interview for-”<br/><br/>Ian cut her off and spoke over her. “I know who you<span style="font-style: italic">are</span>,” he informed her, snatching up a folder from his desk and waving it around. It was her resume, or what he assumed was hers. He'd lost track a few interviews ago. “Tell me what you<span style="font-style: italic">do</span>. Impress me.” He dropped the folder back to his desk, and the very top of some papers scooted out of hiding. He could barely make the name out at the top of her CV. It was hers. Good. These dreadfully dull interviews hadn't cost him his mind yet.<br/><br/>The instruction seemed to put the mouse at ease. He made a mental note that she needed to be told what to do. “Currently, I work as an intern at Highland Psychiatric Hospital. It's unpaid, so if I got this job it would be able to supplement my income and help me continue my education and internship. Gives me rent money, and all that,” she laughed politely. Dry sense of humor. Duly noted.<br/><br/>Ian nodded his head slowly as she rambled on about her credentials, which were admittedly impressive if she hadn't been so<span style="font-style: italic">boring</span>. His finger hovered over a red button on the phone atop his desk. “Marisa?” he spoke to his phone, cutting the mouse off mid-sentence during a drone about her membership from some renowned sorority or another. A chill, sweet voice that reminded Ian so much of poisoned candy talked back to him. “Yes, Dr. Rothchild?”<br/><br/>The mouse nodded her head sassily. Ian looked at her, his interest piqued. He waited patiently for her to say something to him, to prove to him that she wasn't as stagnant and mundane as she made herself out to be, but she just crossed her arms and huffed. He pressed the button again and leaned a bit more toward the phone. “Send in the next person.”<br/><br/>Ian watched with a sparkle of amusement in his golden-brown eyes as the mouse retreated from his office. “Don't call us, we'll call you,” he called out to her as a reminder before she slammed the door behind her. He grinned to himself and waited for the next one.