The clock on the wall ticked softly, a steady rhythm against the quiet hush of the Khan Haveli. Inside the study, a single lamp cast a warm pool of light over the grand wooden desk, its surface cluttered with open files, neatly stacked papers, and a crystal ashtray resting just at the corner.

Huzaifa sat back in the leather chair, sleeves rolled up, spectacles perched low on the bridge of his nose. A half-read file lay open in his hands. Between his fingers, a cigarette burned slowly, its ember glowing like a secret in the dim room. Wisps of smoke curled upward, mingling with the scent of old books, aged wood, and faint tobacco.