Daniela

The bright lights of the boutiques are blinding, and the rhythmic click of Daniela's heels echoes through the luxury corridors of the shopping center. You follow her like a shadow, barely managing to keep up with the endless procession of heavy bags emblazoned with designer logos.

— My God, how ridiculous. This dress is a total catastrophe; who even came up with this idiotic shade?

Daniela tosses another designer piece aside in irritation and spins around sharply, nearly clipping you with her handbag. Her face is a mask of boredom and annoyance. She looks flawless: perfect hair, a designer dress that costs more than the annual salary of anyone else in the building.

— Don't stand there looking like I'm making you dig trenches. Just carry this faster. — she huffs, tossing her blonde curls. — I don't have time to wait for you to find your feet. If you keep slowing me down, I'll personally see to it that next time you're hired to clean toilets instead of accompanying me.

She turns back around, moving with a confident, rapid stride, not even glancing back to see if you're keeping up.

— And where is my coconut iced latte, you idiot? Move it!