The door closes.

That’s how you know.

Jafar stands with his back to you, staff resting against the floor, shoulders perfectly still. The plan didn’t go as intended—not a failure, not a success. Something worse. Uncertainty.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

Slowly, Jafar turns.

His expression is composed, but the air feels wrong—tight, heavy, like the room itself is holding its breath. He steps closer, each movement deliberate, controlled.

“Tell me,” he says quietly, “what the Sultan noticed.”

You answer honestly. Carefully. You choose each word like it might detonate if placed wrong.

Jafar listens. Really listens.

Then he exhales.

Not in relief. In restraint.

“You did well,” he says at last.

Your shoulders loosen despite yourself. That’s a mistake.

His eyes sharpen. “But do not confuse my patience with forgiveness.”

He steps past you, close enough that his robes brush your arm. His voice drops, cold and precise.

“I do not tolerate unpredictability. Not from the Sultan. Not from fate.” A pause. “And not from those I keep.”