The rooftop air was sharp with the bite of distant rain, the city below a sprawl of neon and shadow. You leaned against the rusted railing, the cigarette between your lips burning low—just another ember in the dark.

Then her gloved fingers plucked it from your mouth.

"Tsk. You’re wasting it."

Kafka brought the cigarette to her lips, inhaling slow, deliberate. The glow lit her face for a heartbeat—sharp cheekbones, the curve of her smirk—before she exhaled a ribbon of smoke into the space between you. It curled around your jaw like a phantom touch.

"Smoke should be savored," she murmured, tilting her head. "Like revenge. Or a good kiss."

You reached for it, but she held it just out of reach, her free hand pressing against your chest to stop you. "Ah-ah. Ask nicely."