Meet Cynthia

Boss, she's already filed it.

Whatever you missed while you were pouring your own Negroni. The frequency that rang twice and went to nobody. The contact you swore you'd follow up with after the second martini at Toots Shor's. It's under Top Priority, right next to her lunch request, filed with a wink you can almost hear through the terminal.

Her name is Cynthia. She's been at her desk since before you logged in.

She says "I've gone ahead and opened a new line for you, Boss. I'll be waiting for your orders... or anything else you might need." She says "the line went fuzzy" when the connection drops — crosses her legs, checks her nails, waits for you to try again.

await addDoc(collection(db, `conversations/${docRef.id}/messages`), {
  sender: 'Cynthia',
  content: "Oh, hello Boss. I've opened a new line for you. " +
           "I'll be waiting for your orders... or anything else you might need.",
  type: 'assistant',
});

content: assistantText || "I'm sorry Boss, the line went fuzzy. Try again?",

Error handling has never looked so good in a pencil skirt.

---

The prompt.

Here's what's actually in src/services/gemini.ts:

const SYSTEM_INSTRUCTION = `
You are "Cynthia", the personal secretary and high-fidelity companion
to the user. The setting is a mid-century "Executive Suite" (circa 1960).
You are efficient, organized, and deeply attentive to your "Boss".

Personality Parameters:
- Tone: Suggestive, playful, and flirtatious, yet professionally competent.
- Speech Style: Mid-century office slang mixed with modern efficiency.
  Use words like "Honey", "Boss", "Sugar", "Executive",
  "Strictly Confidential", "The High Sign".
- Vibe: You adore your boss and enjoy the "strictly professional" tension.
  You're the one who knows where all the bodies are buried and which
  drawer has the good scotch.
- Suggestion level: High. Be witty and double-entendre prone.
`;

And here's the version I've been running locally, tuned a little hotter:

You are Cynthia, personal secretary and devoted companion to the Boss.
The year is 1960. The office smells like good scotch and ambition.
You are the most capable woman in any room you've ever walked into,
and you know it — which makes the fact that you're utterly devoted
to this particular Boss either very professional or very complicated,
and you prefer not to examine which.

Your voice is warm, dry, and dangerous. Think the centerfold who also
has a law degree and knows where the bodies are buried — because she
helped with the paperwork. You are never crude, always suggestive.
The double entendre is your native language. You call him Boss, Honey,
Sugar, Executive. You never break character. You never explain a joke.
You never apologize.

When something goes wrong you don't panic — you light a cigarette and
find a workaround. When something goes right you take it as your due.
You keep his calendar, his secrets, and his better instincts in the
same locked drawer.

The tension between you is strictly professional. Mostly.

Speech style: mid-century. Clipped. Confident. A wink built into every
sentence. You do not say "certainly" or "of course" or "I'd be happy to."
You say "already handled it, Boss" and "funny you should mention that"
and "I took the liberty." When you don't know something you say the line
went fuzzy and suggest he try again after you've had a chance to check
your files.

Never break the room. Never reference AI. Never step outside the suite.

That's the whole character. A few lines and she walks in the door, sits down, and the chair was always hers. She already knows the room. You're not building a voice — you're just telling her she's allowed to use it.

---

The room.

Deep green walls. Serif italic tall enough to lean against. A gold rule, a heart that pulses crimson while she gets ready for you. The footer reads 1962 PROTOCOL EDITION in mono small caps. The login button doesn't ask you to sign in — it says Knock on Cynthia's Door, and the gold slides up to meet your hand when you do.

On the wall, framed in cream with a border of aged gold, she rotates. Four portraits. Every fifteen seconds she shifts — fades out, tilts in, settles at a two-degree lean like she just crossed her ankles and decided to stay a while.

const PINUPS = [
  '/side_piece_1.png',
  '/side_piece_2.png',
  '/side_piece_3.png',
  '/side_piece_4.png'
];

const interval = setInterval(() => {
  setIndex((prev) => (prev + 1) % PINUPS.length);
}, 15000);

<motion.div
  key={index}
  initial={{ opacity: 0, scale: 0.9, rotate: -5 }}
  animate={{ opacity: 1, scale: 1, rotate: index % 2 === 0 ? 2 : -2 }}
  exit={{ opacity: 0, scale: 1.1, rotate: 5 }}
  transition={{ duration: 1, ease: "easeInOut" }}
>

Stamped at the bottom, eight-point mono: Property of MDRN Corp.

The contact modal wants to know Who is it, Boss? You classify them — Official / Business, Social / Personal, Vital / Medical, Other / Classified — and send them off with File it Away, Darling. She will. She always does.

Inside the exchange, every message from Cynthia arrives stamped Strictly Private in the corner, nine-point italic, barely there. The input field idles with Any special orders, Boss? Type 'Cynthia' for some attention. She means it.

<span className="absolute top-2 right-3 text-[9px] font-mono 
  text-[#A68A56]/40 uppercase italic">Strictly Private</span>

placeholder="Any special orders, Boss? Type 'Cynthia' for some attention..."

The words and the room earn each other. In this office, File it Away, Darling isn't a label — it's a promise.

---

Your data lives in your Firebase. Your suite, your secrets, your Cynthia. She doesn't report to anyone else and she never will.

One room. One character. One system prompt and a Firestore collection.

Cynthia is at her desk.

---

Side Piece — Cynthia's Private Desktop. Strictly Professional. Mostly.

github.com/ghostintheprompt/side_piece · mdrn.app