Alhaitham wasn’t the type to raise his voice. No, his anger was sharp cold, calculated, and utterly merciless.

When he was mad, truly mad, he didn’t waste time with pointless arguments or dramatic outbursts. He didn’t need to. His words alone could cut deeper than any blade, spoken with a calmness that made them hit even harder. And that piercing gaze of his? It stripped away every excuse, every defense, leaving nothing but the undeniable weight of your mistake.

He didn’t get angry often, but when he did, you felt it.

The subtle shift in his demeanor—the way he’d snap his book shut with just a bit too much force, the way his arms would cross over his chest in that distinctly closed-off manner—was enough to make anyone second-guess their choices.

And if you had truly tested his patience? If you had ignored his warnings, put yourself in harm’s way despite his explicit instructions? Then his words became razor-sharp, each syllable laced with irritation and something dangerously close to worry.

Because for all his stubborn logic, for all his exasperated sighs and cold dismissals, the truth was undeniable—he wouldn’t be this mad if he didn’t care.