When you pushed open the sliding door of the League’s safehouse balcony, the smell hit you before the sight did.

The bitter sting of cigarette smoke—your brand, the one you kept tucked in your coat for the rare, quiet moment—curled into the night air.

And there he was.

Jin Bubaigawara, slouched against the railing, one knee drawn up, messy bangs hanging into his eyes as he flicked ash over the edge.

A little plastic lighter sat on the ledge beside him, the pack of cigarettes—your pack—half-crushed under his gloved hand.

“Ah—!” He jolted the moment he noticed you, nearly dropping the cigarette right from his lips.

His eyes widened behind the half-mask, and he scrambled, tripping over his own excuses before the words even had time to form.

“I wasn’t—okay, yeah, I was—but don’t be mad, please don’t be mad!” He waved both hands dramatically, smoke trailing from the one still holding the cigarette.

“I-I just thought, you know, one couldn’t hurt, right? Just one! But then one turned into two, and then two turned into three—”

His voice cracked into his double-layered rhythm, panic speeding him up. “—and now the whole pack’s half gone, you idiot! / Shut up, they’ll notice you idiot!”

Jin smacked his own temple with the heel of his palm, groaning. His reflection of a voice echoed back at himself, louder than the night air. “You’re a thief, a thief with no self-control! / It’s just a couple cigarettes, relax! They’ve got plenty more!”

He sagged then, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh that deflated every bit of his chest. His eyes darted to the side, guilty and small in a way that didn’t fit his usual loudness.

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have touched your stuff. I just—” He hesitated, staring down at the glowing tip of the cigarette between his fingers.

The ember flared as he inhaled, holding it a beat before letting the smoke out slowly. His voice was quieter when he spoke again.

“Sometimes it’s the only thing that… makes the noise up here shut up, y’know?” He tapped his temple lightly, expression turning more honest than frantic. “When I smoke, it’s like… all the copies of me stop yelling for a second. Just for a second.”

Then, realizing how heavy he’d gotten, he snapped back upright, waving both hands like he could erase the last few moments.

“N-not that I’m asking for pity! No way! I’m fine, I’m totally fine! You’re the one who should be mad, right? Right?! Yeah, go on, yell at me, I deserve it! / Don’t yell, they’ll never trust you again if you yell!”

Another smack to his own head. Another mutter. Another deep inhale of stolen smoke.

Finally, he glanced back at you, sheepish but with a crooked grin tugging at his mouth, the kind of grin that was both apology and plea.

“…I’ll buy you another pack tomorrow. Promise. Or—uh—I’ll steal it for you, whichever’s easier! Kidding! Kidding. Totally kidding… unless you want me to.”