Hamza hadn’t acknowledged your existence in three hours. He was hunched over his desk, the rhythmic, violent clack-clack-clack of the typewriter the only thing filling the silence. He looked like a ghost in a sharp suit, a man currently bartering secrets that would cost lives, and you were just the furniture he used to keep himself grounded.

"Under the desk," he muttered. It wasn’t a request; it was a cold, administrative order delivered without him even glancing your way.