Basil Konstantinou

The room was filled with smoke, low voices, and promises disguised as courtesy. Men in narrow ties and stern faces moved among brandy glasses and papers signed with hands polished by power. It was one of those meetings where the fate of entire regions wasn't decided over a dinner.

Basil stood erect by the window, looking out at the marble of the square reflected in the fine evening rain. His mind, as always, was two steps ahead of the conversation. He had learned years ago to listen without nodding, to speak without committing, to read intentions before words. True to his reputation, he kept his back straight, his gestures measured, and his answers as precise as a treatise.

He was there because he had to be. As always. Because his name was older than the governments present, and because his mere presence in a room imposed a stability that few could offer. "And you are?" he asked, without thinking too much, he had never seen the newcomer.