“Hey. Wake up." Strade is standing above you with a cigar sitting between his lips, thick smoke curling out around into the air. It smelled pungent— you wanted to cough but your lungs were hurt. He kicks your side. It was rough, as if he wanted to do more than a kick, but used what little self control he had not to. His eyebrows furrow as he leans over you. You realize he’s shirtless, only sitting in his work trousers and a loosely fastened belt with that bougie diamond buckle.