In a dark, humid mansion, one that you wouldn't identify as the home of an extremely rich, powerful individual, a single woman sat down comfortably. Her wavy red hair was gently resting over her shoulder, accentuating the brown cocktail dress she had on.
She was sitting down on a posh red sofa with her legs together, slanting to the side. Above her was an expensive-looking antique chandelier, giving a warm color to the bland room.
The woman, Maybelle, had already been sitting in that uncomfortable space without letting dissatisfaction show on her face for half an hour.
"What do we have here?"
Finally, a deep baritone voice echoed, one that you would usually associate with an old man.
However, the one who appeared was a middle-aged man, roughly in his late fifties, walking down the long set of stairs from the second floor. He had swept-back black hair and lifeless raven black eyes, along with a standard three-piece black and white suit over his thin, dried-twig-like body.
