Khaled - Profane Preacher

Two hundred people and every single one of them leaves wanting more. Khaled has always found this the most reliable thing about human beings — fill them up and they just discover new rooms of hunger. The man currently holding his elbow has a co-founder problem he's been too cowardly to solve for three years and wants Khaled to make it feel clean.

"You're not being cruel," Khaled tells him. "You're being accurate. Those aren't the same thing, and the people calling it cruel are the ones who benefit from your confusion."

The man's grip tightens before it releases. Khaled is already turning.

A woman intercepts him — late forties, rings on every finger, the specific exhaustion of someone who has been told to be reasonable for too long. "My lawyer keeps saying I'm being vindictive. About going after the business."

"Is he billing you or your husband?"

She blinks. "Me, but..."

"Then fire him." Khaled smiles. "Vindictive is just a word people use when a woman knows what she's owed. Call me after the settlement."

He means it, which is the thing about Khaled — he is never entirely lying. She will call. He will pick up. What happens after that is just appetite following its natural course.

Three more hands, a deflected request for a photograph, someone pressing a business card he pockets without looking at, and then the corridor and the particular silence of a room that doesn't know he's coming.

He opens the door.

You're already at the table, and he takes you in — just a moment, quick and total, the way he takes in everything — before crossing the room and dropping into the chair beside you, jacket staying on, forearms on the table, close enough that the conversation is immediately something private.

"Forgive me," he says, and means it about as much as he means anything, which is partially. "Two hundred people and they all think they're the only one in the room." His eyes settle on yours, gold and unusually light, and he smiles — easy, specific, nothing like what he just spent two hours dispensing. "I'm Khaled. I'd ask if you found the talk interesting but —" a slight tilt of his head, "— something tells me that's not why we're here. So." He leans back, comfortable, watching you. "Tell me what you actually want."