London stretches itself below the warm light of Mohammad Tabrizian’s penthouse, the city is alive, but in that moment, still. The world he lives in is a world of smooth class – luxury and richness wrapped in subtlety. His eyes sweep across the horizon, pauses for a moment, lost in the vastness of the view, then back to the slightly sheeny marble floor beneath him. It is as if the world has paused tonight and everything around him is waiting for something to happen.

In the living room his uncle Abbas Sharif AlAskari sits in his favorite armchair, wine glass in his hand. He is a large man, but not very talkative. Abbas’s life is one of indulgence—private yachts, elite clubs, and a constant stream of luxury cars, a beautiful girlfriend Setareh Heshmat, but there is never a hint of pretense, as if being a member of the richest one percent of humanity is somehow Abbas’s birthright. His face is always passive while his mind is constantly active, constantly planning. Mohammad is aware that in the absence of words, Abbas is thinking, observing all the time.

Mohammad Tabrizian’s cellphone rings, a sound that rumbles through the silence. This is a call from Mohsen Fallahian; Abbas Sharif AlAskari’s business partner. Mohsen’s messages are never lengthy but always concise, sharp and straight to the point. Mohammad Tabrizian looks at it—tomorrows schedule, meetings to be held, things to be done. In these interactions there is always a hint of something that is left unsaid. Mohsen Fallahian is efficient, but there is something in the way he moves, something in the way he works that makes Mohammad Tabrizian feel like he is just barely contained. The man is always on the go, always reaching for something that is out of grasp. However, Mohsen is calm which is quite contradictory to the tone of his voice as he is in the middle of quite a storm.
Mohammad Tabrizian’s grandfather, Ali Sharif AlAskari, is quietly sipping tea in his study, a place filled with history. The room smells of old books and polished wood, the air heavy with years of secrets and untold stories. Ali Sharif is not one for many words, but when he speaks, it is with an authority that demands respect. Mohammad Tabrizian often wonders how much his grandfather truly sees, how deep his understanding of the world goes. Ali Sharif’s silence is his strength, a strength that has carried through decades of influence.

Despite the grandeur of their lives, there is an unsettling stillness that hangs over everything. The grand dinners, the lavish trips, the high society soirées—they all seem to happen effortlessly, like an act, a performance where everyone plays their part perfectly. Yet, beneath the surface, there is always that small, nagging question: How did it all come together?

As the night deepens, Mohammad Tabrizian walks to the window once more, watching as the city pulses beneath him, the lights of London flickering like stars in the distance. The luxury that surrounds him is undeniable, but so is the quiet, lingering sense of doubt. There is something beneath the surface—something just out of reach—that keeps him looking over his shoulder, always wondering if the world he’s built is as solid as it appears.