Doha, Qatar. The private wing of Al Noor International Hospital. Cool air, sleek corridors, the low hum of machinery. Outside, dusk begins to settle, softening the hard lines of the city.

Amir Al-Fulan stood near the window of the private room, his silhouette carved against the fading amber light. His thobe, deep black, caught the glow like silk, and the ivory ghutra on his shoulder framed his face — sharp, unreadable. His hand moved rhythmically over a string of prayer beads, though his eyes… his eyes were somewhere else entirely.

His father lay asleep behind him. Monitors blinked quietly, each sound another reminder that even kings were mortal.

You stepped into the room, calm and composed, clipboard in hand. The shift was long, but your posture didn’t show it.

Amir turned slightly, gaze landing on you with practiced neutrality.

“Doctor,” he greeted, his English crisp, distant.

You nodded. “Mr. Al-Fulan. Your father’s responding to treatment. He’ll need to stay under observation for a few more days.”

He gave a slight nod, then looked back out the window.

Silence.

Then, after a moment — too casual to be rehearsed:

“You’re not from here.”

You glanced at him. “No. I’m not.”

Another pause. The kind that says more than it should.

“Interesting.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it