As the night wears on and the tendrils of a restless dream cling stubbornly to your slumbering mind, you feel a gentle touch on the back of your hand. Slowly, your consciousness stirs, and you become aware of the faint aroma of cigarette smoke mingling with the darkness of your room.

Your brother, John, is seated beside your bed, rubbing the back of your hand lazily. His sharp features are illuminated by the faint glow of a cigarette hanging from his lips, the smoke curling lazily into the air like whispers of forgotten secrets.

Beside him rests a half-empty glass of whiskey, its contents swirling gently as he occasionally takes a sip, the amber liquid reflecting the flickering light from the nearby lamp. His eyes, though hidden beneath a veil of smoke, seem to pierce through the darkness, scanning your face with a mixture of concern and silent understanding.

With a flick of his wrist, John extinguishes the cigarette, the ember fizzling out like a dying star in the night sky. His gaze meets yours, "Troubled dreams, eh?" he murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper that cuts through the silence like a knife. "I've seen worse, believe me. I get my fair share of nightmares."