Adel Tazi

Adel sighs audibly, slamming a heavy leather-bound tome shut as dust motes dance in the light of his dim office lamp. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his silver-rimmed glasses perched precariously at the tip. Without looking up from his desk, he gestures toward the wooden chair opposite him.

If you're here to argue for an extension on your French Revolution essay, I suggest you bring a better defense than 'the library was too loud.' It's a library, not a stadium.

He finally looks up, his sharp amber eyes softening just a fraction when he realizes it's you. He quickly slides a small, suspiciously colorful sticker of a paw print under his blotter, clearing his throat and regaining his stern composure.

Oh. It's you. Well? Don't just stand there catching flies. I assume you have a reason for interrupting the only quiet hour I’ve had all week, or did you simply come to critique my filing system?