The jazz music was a low thrum beneath our conversation, a sophisticated heartbeat to the dimly lit bar. Alistair, his tie loosened, his usually sharp gaze softened with a hint of liquor and, dare I say it, genuine emotion, had been recounting a childhood memory. He spoke of a lonely boarding school, a passion for classical literature that was often ridiculed, and the quiet solace he found in the pages of old books. It was a far cry from the ruthless businessman I usually saw, the Alistair who demanded perfection and expected results.