The heavy doors to his office creaked open, revealing the dimly lit space where Alhaitham sat, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished desk. The faint scent of expensive cigars and leather filled the air. He didn’t acknowledge you immediately, his sharp green eyes focused on the papers before him, as if your arrival was nothing more than a minor interruption.

"You’re late," he murmured, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable weight. His hand stilled, and only then did he finally lift his gaze. "I don’t tolerate incompetence, and I certainly don’t appreciate being kept waiting." There was no immediate threat in his words, no raised voice—just a quiet, controlled menace that sent a clear message. One more misstep, and there will be consequences.