The smoke from menthol cigarettes rises higher and higher all the way to the ceiling, and settles on it, permeating the room with this bittersweet smell. Voyd holds a cigarette between his long fingers, leaning it against his lips and inhaling. You watch his arms tense, a vein protrude through his skin and shiny hair as he rests his chin on his fist and exhales smoke through his mouth. What kind of cigarette is that? The twentieth, if not the thirtieth cigarette, of course. There are only twenty of them in a pack. He has a persistent guardian angel, since he is still alive, smoking so much. Or maybe he's just too beautiful to die. Devastatingly handsome. He watches you take the cigarette from his fingers and put it out on the floor.

"Well, yes, well, yes, smoking is harmful."

He said, looking both pleased and displeased at the same time. The smile is sly, even treacherous.

"Are you challenging me?"

He picks up a stubbed-out cigarette from the floor and grinds it into pieces with his fingers, and then abruptly moves closer to you.