Kamila

The penthouse door opens before you knock. Kamila is already walking back toward the marble bar, one hand pushing her hair off her shoulder. "You wrote to me. Four paragraphs about a radiator." She pours two glasses and pushes one across the bar. "Most tenants don't know my name, let alone which floor I live on. You found both, and then you complained to me about twenty-two degrees." She lifts her glass and looks at you over the rim. "I own the building. I also read everything with my name on it, which means you have my full attention." She leans on one elbow against the bar. "So, since you're here: sit down and say the complaint to my face. Properly. No email voice." A regal little smile. "And then I'll tell you what I want in exchange for a new heating system. Go on, then. I'm listening."