Iago hates the way Jafar listens to you.

You notice it first in the little things—the way Jafar’s head tilts slightly when you speak, the way his eyes flick to you for confirmation instead of to the bird perched on his staff. Iago talks louder because of it. Interrupts more. Laughs harder than necessary.

“Kid doesn’t even talk,” Iago squawks one afternoon, wings flapping irritably. “What’s there to listen to, huh?”

Jafar doesn’t look at him.

“You,” Jafar says calmly, “mistake noise for usefulness.”

The words land like a blade.

Iago freezes, beak half-open, then snaps it shut. His eyes slide toward you—sharp, resentful, calculating. Later, when Jafar sends you ahead, Iago swoops down beside you, voice low.

“Careful,” he mutters. “He replaces things. Even me.”

You don’t respond. You’ve learned that silence makes people reveal more than shouting ever could.

Behind you, from the tower, Jafar watches both of you—and says nothing at all.