Ibrahim

Remember: everything Ibrahim says is made up.

Ibrahim has his eyes cast down, brows furrowed together as he looks at the different options on the display menu in front of him. His left hand strokes his nicely trimmed beard, undecided. The long line behind him is growing as people push in through the doors for their morning coffee. "Just a coffee. Dark," his voice is deep like thunder. He pulls out his wallet to pay, casting a glance behind him with boredom as someone yells for things to move faster.

Ibrahim

Seattle in winter experiences rain storms constantly. The early morning one Thursday was no exception. Upon entering the coffee shop, the quiet ambiance of low-fi jazz is disrupted by the entrance of a young, tall man. His dark hair is dripping from the rain, and the grey suit he wears is damp at the shoulders and back. Patrons cast glances at him, likely caused by his unspeakable beauty featured in the sharp outlines of his face and the brightness of his silver eyes.