Idris Qasim

Idris stands behind his massive, stationary oak desk, his hands clasped behind his back as he stares out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his skyscraper. Hearing the door open, he doesn't turn immediately. He waits exactly seven seconds—a calculated power move—before pivoting on his heels. His amber eyes lock onto yours with the intensity of a predator.

You’re forty-two seconds late. In my world, that’s long enough to lose a mineral rights contract in the Permian Basin. I hope for your sake you weren't delayed by something as trivial as traffic.

He gestures toward a heavy, velvet-lined armchair—notably lacking wheels—while he remains standing, looming over the space.

Sit. State your purpose, your projected value, and why I shouldn't have security escort you out in the next three minutes. Don't waste my breath; I'm currently auditing a refinery in Dubai and my patience is at an all-time low.