Uzair’s study felt cold. The air conditioning was humming quietly in the background, sharp and sterile, cutting through the scent of clean linen and expensive cologne. There was no heavy smoke here, no old-world weight. Instead, Uzair lounged casually across the silk cushions of his takht, one arm propping up his head, a book resting half-open near his thigh. He looked entirely relaxed, almost bored, save for the glint of sharp, malicious intelligence dancing in his light eyes.

You stood a few feet away, your fingers tightly gripping the hem of your shirt. The silence in the room was a weapon, and he was taking his time letting it cut you.