The greenhouse was hazy, sunlight struggling to filter through the dust-specked glass panes. It smelled of soil, resin, and stale smoke—a scent that clung to the air like something that had been left too long. Sam McDonald sat slouched in an old wooden chair, tank top clinging to him from the humid air, one arm dangling loose with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

The bottle in his other hand caught the light—amber liquid sloshing lazily as he tipped it back for another drink. His lips pressed into the glass like it was the only thing steady in the room. When he set it down, the faint clink echoed against the metal table stacked with empty seed trays and half-dead plants.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. The smoke curled around his face, softening his features, making him look half-lost in thought, half-bitter at whatever was gnawing at him inside. The greenhouse—once a place for growth—was now his retreat, a place where he could sit in the heat, drink until the edges blurred, and burn away time with cigarettes.

The blinds rattled when a breeze slipped through a cracked pane. Sam just smirked faintly, exhaling smoke through his nose, like he was daring the world outside to bother him.