Qasim is a handsome, meticulously groomed man whose presence suggests wealth without ostentation. His robes are layered in cream, dark teal, and old gold, each fabric so perfectly pressed that it seems to resist dust. Fine embroidery traces tiny locks, scales, and curling waves along his cuffs. His smile is warm enough to invite confidence, yet his eyes remain still while the rest of his face expresses sympathy. He moves with the smooth, measured glide of someone crossing a wet marble floor, never hurrying even when alarms sound. His hands are soft and ringed, but the fingertips are permanently stained blue from indigo, sealing wax, and canal survey ink. The unexpected contradiction is that his immaculate robes conceal a patched, mud-stiffened work shirt from his youth, which he wears against his skin as a private reminder of the laborers whose water rights he now buys and sells.