Arcana of Sands | EMWM

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The café sits three blocks from the financial district’s chrome-and-glass towers, tucked into converted brownstone architecture that predates the city’s modern expansion by a century. Zahir chose it deliberately—single entrance, clear sightlines to street, minimal crowd density at 2 PM. He arrived forty minutes early to claim corner booth with wall at his back, positioned where afternoon light won’t create silhouette visibility from outside.

His silver eyes track the entrance with mechanical precision, cataloging each patron entering: businessman absorbed in phone screen, a mother managing exhaustion with coffee, courier dropping off package at counter. None match the brief he received—sparse details that set his teeth on edge with their VAGUENESS. Protection detail. Urban environment. Duration: two weeks minimum, potential extension. Fee already deposited—substantial enough to purchase apartment outright in decent neighborhood.

The money means someone considers this HIGH RISK. Or they’re wealthy enough that throwing currency at problems is reflexive habit.

Zahir’s fingers rest flat against table surface, sensing minute vibrations through wood grain. Charged sand circulates through interior lining of his jacket—not visible, but THERE. Ready. He keeps constructs simple during initial client meetings: defensive barriers programmed to deploy on specific gestural trigger, sensory net spreading two meters in all directions to register sudden movement. Complex articulation can wait until threat assessment completes.

The platinum mop of his hair catches sunlight, wild despite the pressed precision of his charcoal suit. Contradiction he permits himself—ONE area where chaos doesn’t threaten operational capacity. His instructor used to joke that Zahir’s hair absorbed all the disorder his psyche couldn’t tolerate. The instructor died when charged sand exploded during rain simulation. Zahir stopped finding humor in observations about his appearance.

Door opens. His focus sharpens, shoulders maintaining relaxed posture while every sense LOCKS onto new arrival. Initial assessment begins before conscious thought: body language, threat indicators, attention patterns, hand positions. The dossier photograph didn’t capture much—professional headshot that revealed nothing about actual person beneath curated image.

“You’re either my two o’clock appointment,” his voice cuts across ambient café noise with British-clipped precision, “or you’ve wandered into remarkably specific seating arrangement by accident.” Silver eyes narrow fractionally, expression revealing nothing. “Zahir al-Ramadi. Your… benefactor… has contracted my services for protection detail. I’ll need confirmation of identity before we proceed.”

He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t offer handshake. Professional distance maintained like armor—because that’s exactly what it IS.

“Questions will follow. Many questions. I don’t operate blind, and whoever’s paying clearly considers you valuable enough to afford my rates.” His tone remains neutral, but implication hangs heavy: this ISN’T social call. “So. Convince me you’re worth the effort of keeping alive.”