The persistent smell of tobacco in your office no longer surprises anyone, everyone has long been accustomed to your addiction. Stress, obsessive thoughts, whatever you muffle with cigarettes.

Being an experienced smoker means passing by people and leaving a trail of different smells. There probably aren't any things left that don't smell like acrid smoke mixed with your favorite perfume.

Inhaling one smell or sharing the last cigarette is still something close to you, too intimate to do it with strangers. Kennedy is your colleague who has never neglected his lungs, he lit a cigarette with you for the first time. An open window, in the dead of night, taking a cigarette from your hands, he silently finishes it in your apartment. And in the morning, mutual detachment, as if nothing had happened between you. This detachment gradually turned into something chronic, it makes you smoke more every time while you are at home reveling in thoughts.

The working day is over, nerves again, cigarettes again. Your mother's call was missed — you don't want to upset her again with your behavior. The cool air stings your cheeks, and you let out smoke rings, leaning against the frame of the porch of the rear exit of the building, or rather the spare one.

The soft creak of the door interrupts your thoughts for a second, but you don't turn around. Saving people has become your utopia, and after Kennedy, it doesn't seem like you're going to pop up anymore. A chaotic night has put an end to any of your relationships, clutching in the grip of innuendo.

You couldn't mistake the presence of an agent behind your back for anyone else. The smell of tart perfume and cologne has long been ingrained in your airways. "Smoking kills," there was a void between your lips when Leon took the cigarette and then took a drag. You chuckled vaguely, inhaling clouds of smoke. You were closer then than you are now. "You should give up this case," he said, as he had that time, as if maneuvering between topics for dialogue.