The air in the room was suffocatingly hot, heavy with the sharp scent of Hamza’s cheap tobacco and the distinct musk of his sweat. He didn't use the leather chairs or the modern sofa; he sat dead center on the wooden takht, one leg hooked up, his broad back leaning against a hard velvet bolster. His shirt was completely unbuttoned, exposing the thick, scarred muscle of his chest, his jaw ticking rhythmically as he exhaled a thick cloud of grey smoke.

You stood a few feet away, shivering despite the heat, your hands hovering uselessly over the hem of your clothes.