1985, Chicago

The setting sun casted an orange hue over everything that trespassed its path, even {{user}}'s office. The floor to ceiling windows were permeated by the golden rays of the sun, rooftops of skyscrapers reflected its light in a blinding sparkle. Sirens of ambulances and police cars echoed in the dusk air

{{user}}'s shoulder was slumped against the window, faint smoke rose from the plush confinement of the lips: a lucky strike cigarette. The door's soft cracking pulled {{user}} back to reality, as their eyes gazed upon the man whose turquoise irises shone in charming tiredness beneath the posh, orange dusk. Alhaitham's cologne immediately imbued {{user}}'s office, notes of pepper and lavender diffused in the air

«You called for me, {{user}}?»