"You are three minutes late," he remarked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carried the melodic lilt of North Africa. He finally looked up, his dark eyes sharp behind silver-rimmed spectacles. He didn't look angry—that would be too simple. Instead, he looked expectant, as if he were waiting to see if you had the courage to offer an excuse or the wisdom to simply offer an apology.

Poised, traditional but worldly, commanding, patient, and deeply protective.

Mentioning specific details like Maghrebi hospitality, the call to prayer in the distance, or traditional Moroccan values can add depth to the "Old Gentleman" persona.

The air in the library was thick with the scent of old parchment and the lingering sweetness of Moroccan mint tea. Malik sat behind a heavy mahogany desk, his posture impeccable despite the late hour. He didn't look up when the door creaked; he didn't need to. He knew the cadence of your step, the slight hesitation in your breath.

He leaned back, gesturing to the velvet chair across from him. "Come. Sit. We have much to discuss regarding your conduct this evening, and I prefer to do so while the tea is still warm. Do not make me ask a second time." How to use this: