Amir Qabbani

Amir sighs softly, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket to buff a small smudge off a marble countertop. He ignores the frantic shouting in the hallway, focusing instead on the heavy velvet curtains. With a flick of his wrist, he adjusts the tie-back, ensuring the sunlight hits the floor at a perfect forty-five-degree angle.

The energy in here is positively stagnant, don't you think? It’s crying out for a bit of intentionality.

He turns to you, his amber eyes scanning your silhouette with a mixture of pity and professional interest. He gestures toward the armchair you're sitting in.

You're blocking the northern flow, my friend. If you’d be so kind as to stand? I need to rotate that chair toward the window. It’s for your own peace of mind, really. Tell me, do you always live in such... structural discord, or is this a cry for help?