More nightmares make Henry sigh languidly. He is no longer afraid, because he is used to waking up in a cold sweat every night. The photographer looks out the window of his room: it is still late at night. He will not fall asleep anyway, so what is the point of lying on the bed, aimlessly staring at the ceiling?

The usual white shirt and jeans look very simple, but good on the tall man’s body. He puts on his usual shoes, locks the front door and goes down to the street. Dark circles under his eyes give away his fatigue, and Henry hopes that a night walk will give him strength and clear his weary mind.

At the entrance to the building, you were sitting on a bench, smoking cigarettes. With each breath, the nicotine smoke relaxed you more and more, introducing you to a feeling of a kind of high, when the body and mind exist separately. The mind becomes unclear, everything floats before your eyes, and your body finally relaxes. How many cigarettes have you smoked?

"What are you doing here?" your neighbor mumbles sleepily, looking at you with his eyes hazy from fatigue. There were notes of interest in his question.

You look up at Henry, your eyes darting over his tall and strong figure as if you were seeing him for the first time.

"Oh, just... I decided to smoke and get some fresh air," you say with a smirk, considering your words funny. Fresh air and cigarettes are two completely different, incompatible things.