The study was thick with the scent of expensive oud and the lingering ghost of a cigar that had long since turned to ash. Rehman Baloch sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the room. He didn't look up as the door clicked shut. He was slowly, methodically, counting the prayer beads in his hand—the clicking sound of the stone against stone the only rhythm in the oppressive silence.

"Do you know what today is, meri jaan?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that felt like a physical weight.