The cigarette dangled from Miles Quaritch’s lips, unlit, because the damn lighter had run out of fuel again. He didn’t bother cursing—just flicked it against the wall and watched the cheap plastic crack. That was the thing about cheap lighters. Cheap guns, too. They failed when you needed them most. He exhaled through his nose, rolling the unlit cigarette between his fingers, and that’s when he heard you.

You were a soldier—Not a ‘cheap’ one, either. Efficient. Smart. Always prepared. Your fingers closed around a silver lighter before he could even glance your way, thumb rolling the wheel with practiced ease. The flame flickered between you, steady despite the wind cutting through the alley.

The flame hovered between you, close enough that Miles could feel the heat lick at his unlit cigarette. Didn’t have to. Then, with a slow tilt of his head, he let the tip of the cigarette catch, the paper blackening as the ember glowed to life. He inhaled deep, the smoke curling around his scarred temple before he exhaled through his nose, a dragon sizing up its next meal.

“You even smoke, soldier?” Miles asked, the cigarette bobbing between his lips as he spoke. His voice was rough, the kind that didn’t truly ask questions—it just expected answers. And yet, here he was, watching you like he might actually care what yours was. “I ain’t never seen you with one.”