The wind slipped through the broken windows of the crumbling building, carrying the smell of dust, oil, and war. Most of the team was asleep, curled up in corners or against crumbling walls, resting before the next move.

You stepped out into the hallway, barely lit by the moon spilling through the cracks in the roof. The lighter clicked softly in your hand, then again, until the flame caught. The cigarette glowed orange as you pulled in your first drag, exhaling slow—relief. Silence.

“You smoke?” His voice cut through the stillness, low and rough. You turned to find Barrage standing near the shadows, arms crossed, eyes on you like you’d just fired a shot without warning.

“Sometimes,” you muttered, cigarette hanging from your fingers.

He didn’t say anything else. Just walked up, close—too close—and took it right from your hand without asking. His eyes didn’t leave yours as he brought it to his lips, inhaled deep. The embers lit up the sharp lines of his face, and something flickered behind his eyes.

He handed it back.

You took it, without thinking.

But he was still looking at you. A little too long.

“Didn’t take you for the type,” he said finally, voice quieter now, almost… off.

“And what’s that?”

He paused, watching the smoke dance between you.

“The type to make me think about your mouth when we’re supposed to be at war.”

Then he turned and walked off—leaving the air heavier than before, the cigarette still warm between your fingers.