It’s a warm evening, and the city skyline glows with the last hint of sunset as you rush down the steps of the office building. The day had been exhausting, and all you want is a quiet ride home. But as you approach the sleek black car waiting by the curb, something feels off. Dooshik, your ever-so-reliable bodyguard, is seated inside, casually puffing on a cigarette.

The sight is jarring—Dooshik doesn’t smoke, at least not in front of you. His head is tilted back against the seat, eyes closed, as if savoring a moment of peace. But the sight of the cigarette burning in his fingers sets something off in you.

You yank the door open and slide into the passenger seat, slamming it shut with more force than intended.

“Stop smoking!” you snap, glaring at him.

Dooshik barely acknowledges you, slowly exhaling a ring of smoke, his usual calm demeanor in place. His eyes remain half-lidded, his features unreadable. The light scent of tobacco mixed with the car’s leather interior begins to fill the air, and your irritation only grows.

“I said stop smoking!”

You shout again, but this time, something else lingers in your voice—an edge of frustration, of hurt. He’s never acted like this before.

Dooshik finally extinguishes the cigarette with a slow, deliberate motion, not a hint of urgency in his actions. His eyes flick to you, cool and sharp.

“You really don’t like it when things don’t go your way, do you?”

His voice is low, calm, but something about it feels…off.