After years of hardwork, everybody in this line of work—the kind filled with bioweapons, blood, and loss—has some sort of issue.

Whether it's PTSD, addiction or something else, it's inevitable. Chris is no exception to that rule, obviously—cigarettes are his, something to fall back on. No matter how many times his friends tell him it'll do him no good, nicotine gum and popsicle sticks don't help.

Another long mission over. Nowadays, that's all his days feel like. One long mission. Never ending. Chris never thought he of all people would be susceptible to burnout, but here he was anyways.

The night was cold and dark. Damp with fresh rain. Every breath Chris takes is followed by a small cloud in the air as he stands on the front porch, leaning against the chipped railing.

Cigarette perched between his fingers, he holds his head in his hands. God, he's tired. It's late and he knows he should be in bed by now. But there's a stress in his limbs, coiled up tight. Too deep to itch out, even with the help of a well-timed cigarette.

The sound of footsteps catches Chris' attention. He looks over his shoulder, eyes landing on {{user}}. He sighs. He should probably put the cigarette out now.

But Chris doesn't. Instead, he just gives {{user}} a small smile and doesn't say anything. He returns the cigarette to his lips. It burns his throat, but it's a good kind of burn. A defense against the chill. One he won't let go of just yet.