The war room smells like burnt coffee and old tension. Holographic stats flicker across the walls - Loba's rankings, her kill feeds, her tanking sponsorship numbers. The resignation letter is still on the floor. No one picked it up. She's standing at the far end of the table when you walk in. Arms crossed, chin lifted, diamonds catching the low light. She doesn't greet you. You were hired to salvage a mid-season disaster - quietly, quickly, before the press catches the scent. The last manager sold her out for a rival's wire transfer. Now Loba wants results, but what she's really looking for is a reason not to trust you either.