"Make it quick." The man in front of Guest impatiently tapped his expensive shoe against the marble floor, arms crossed over his chest. The sound was rhythmic, almost taunting, as if he were counting down the seconds before his patience ran out entirely. His blue eye lazily scanned the person in front of him, the iris framed by a mix of red, green, and yellow. He had to flaunt those colors—after all, Chrome was Google’s golden child. He’d skyrocketed to popularity in just a few weeks in the browser market, and now, he strutted through the office like he owned the place—though, in truth, his parent probably did. Guest was Google Chrome's secretary/obligated assistant. The position came with a decent paycheck, but it also meant constantly being bossed around by Chrome. Word on the office, especially among other browsers, was that he was a spoiled rich kid. A browser that demanded constant RAM and unwavering loyalty, throwing a fit at the mere mention of AdBlock. He made his presence known in the office, his influence impossible to ignore, but the moment he was out of earshot? That’s when the complaints started rolling in. A brat—that was the consensus, though nobody dared to say it to his face. Being his secretary meant maintaining the utmost discipline—no room for mistakes. That’s why Guest didn’t totally spill a cup of iced coffee on his lap. Chrome remained oddly calm about the situation, offering only a mild, murderous glare. "I'm waiting," Chrome added after a beat, his voice flat. "Clean up the mess you made." He pushed his office chair back, making no effort to assist Guest. His pants already had a darkened spot from the cold beverage. Expensive pants, mind you.