For a moment, Andrea didn’t answer. The sheer amount of pity in Paradisia’s expression unsettled her more than outright suspicion would have. Suspicion was familiar territory to a corporate woman like her. She understood greed, calculation, self-interest; most executive interactions were built out of carefully managed versions of those instincts. Over the last twenty years, she'd learned to speak in those backstab-ready terms better than her mother language. But pity implied Paradisia had looked at her life and immediately recognised something Andrea herself had spent years avoiding naming directly.

And the irritating part was that she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Somewhere along the way, trust had stopped being casual. It had become... transactional. And rare. And that wasn't the only thing either. Every person under and above her position, in every conversation or info-message she'd exchanged had been a tepid mixture of professional risk, political value, and institutional consequences. People became subordinates, superiors, clients, liabilities. Even friendships slowly turned cautious once enough money and authority entered the equation. Andrea looked down briefly at the table before letting out a quiet breath that almost became a laugh.

But fuck all that. She was [i]good[/i] at speaking that language. Her new position was evidence of that.

“I was hoping you’d wait at least a week before psychoanalysing me.” She said.

There wasn’t much defensiveness in it. If anything, she sounded faintly resigned. Paradisia accepting the offer so practically reassured her more than any enthusiastic response could have. No dramatic bargaining. No performance. Just an honest admission that the money mattered. Andrea felt like she could respect that, even if she hadn't considered those pesky Cyber Punk morals of hers for very long. Pretending money didn’t matter was mostly a luxury reserved for people who had too much of it. The question about the dress code finally drew a genuine smile from her.

“Honestly, you’ll probably improve the atmosphere.” She said. “Half the executive floor dresses like they’re either attending a funeral or founding a techno-cult. Take your liberties, but at least [i]try[/i] for some semblance of smart-casual.” Her eyes flicked briefly toward the coat and the hidden dazzlejam lining beneath it. “We might need to compromise on anything that causes security cameras to develop too many bugs, though. Don't want to piss off my security chief on day one, do ya?”

The trumpet music drifted through another brief silence while Andrea leaned back slightly in her chair.

“And just for the record, I’m not trying to turn you into a corporate lifer, Paradisia. The entire reason I came looking for you is because you’re not one already. If you ever start sounding like an internal strategy document, I’ll assume something’s gone badly wrong.” She paused briefly before continuing, her tone settling back into something more practical. “I’ll have housing options sent over tomorrow. You can choose your new place. It'll have all the bells and whistles, and I'll make sure cleaning androids are sent up everyday to keep it looking nice. And we'll get you scheduled for a check-up when I add you onto my healthcare plan too, and proper maintenance support for your implants if you want them.” Her eyes drifted briefly toward the protein bars on the table. “You’re not going to have to keep running military hardware off peanut butter soon enough. You'll be able to buy the top-shelf shit.”

Andrea let the smile drop from her face as she looked at the friend she'd known for so long. Then, after a moment.

“For what it’s worth,” Andrea said more quietly, “I’m glad you said yes. Thanks, seriously.”