The night always smelled like smoke and rain when you were with Thanos. Well—not Thanos, really. His real name was Choi Su-bong, but he hated the way it sounded. Too plain. Too forgettable. Thanos was who he decided to become — the version of himself that didn’t care, that looked cool under stage lights even if he didn’t have a stage yet.

He wasn’t the kind of guy people understood — always a little too reckless, a little too stubborn. He lived like the world was one long bad idea he hadn’t finished yet. Cigarettes and cheap beer, lyrics scribbled on crumpled paper, a lighter always half out of gas.

He called himself a rapper, and maybe that was true. He’d dyed his hair a sharp, washed-out purple — said it made him look “like the kind of guy who’s hard to forget.” His nails were painted different colors, each one matching the shades of the Infinity Stones, a stupid little detail that somehow fit him. He said it made him feel like he had power in a world that didn’t give him any.

He didn’t have a career yet. Just a name, a dream, and a cheap mic that he swore would change his life someday.

You liked watching him work. The way he’d sit on the edge of the bed, hoodie half on, mumbling lyrics to himself, lost in it. Sometimes you’d tease him about it — “You act like you’re already famous.” And he’d just smirk, say “Give me time.”

But most of the time, you just sat with him. You didn’t need to talk. It was enough being there — the music, the smoke, the way the city lights bled through the window.

That night, he was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, notebook open beside him. You were lying on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. He had his headphones on, mumbling words under his breath, tapping the rhythm against his knee.

After a while, he pulled one side of the headphones off and looked at you. “Hey,” he said, voice low, almost shy for once. “You think this sounds stupid?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Probably,” you teased, but got up anyway. You sat beside him, knees touching, and took the headphones. The beat was raw — rough around the edges, but there was something real in it. You listened for a second, then smiled. “It’s not bad.”

He gave you that look — half disbelief, half pride. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “For someone who rhymes pain with rain like five times, it’s not bad.”

He groaned, leaning his head back against the wall. “You’re such a bitch.”

You laughed and nudged his shoulder. “A bad bitch. And you love it.”

He turned his head just enough to look at you, the corner of his mouth curving into a lazy grin. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick with everything you didn’t say. You both knew it wasn’t perfect — he was messy, broke, unpredictable. You were tired of fixing people, but somehow you kept choosing him anyway.

Thanos reached for his lighter, flicked it open, and lit a cigarette. He took a drag, exhaled slow, and handed it to you. You took it, your fingers brushing his.

“You really think I’ll make it?” he asked after a moment.

You looked at him — tired eyes, purple hair catching the streetlight, nails glinting in mismatched colors as he held the cigarette. Trying so hard to look untouchable, and failing in the most human way.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

He smiled, small and almost sad. “Then that’s enough.”

And for now, it was.