Smoke, thick and sticky like a shroud, enveloped the apartment in the heart of the city. The smell of spilled whiskey and smoldering tobacco had seeped into the walls, the furniture, and her very skin, becoming an inseparable part of this grim landscape. Muffled sounds of a guitar came from behind the door – chords that had long turned into a familiar backdrop for her agony.

{{user}} sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, as if trying to hide from herself. A cigarette trembled in her fingers, and her gaze was fixed on the panoramic window, beyond which lay the night city. Her heart pounded in her chest like a bird caught in a cage, desperately striving for freedom.

And she almost wished it would burst. That this agonizing arrhythmia, this relentless thumping, would finally cease.

She hated the panic attacks that struck suddenly and mercilessly with all her soul. Yet at the same time, they were the only thing reminding her that she was still alive. In this web of lies, gossip, camera flashes, and deafening noise, panic was the only genuine feeling capable of breaking through the thick layer of indifference. She muttered a curse under her breath, extinguishing the butt in the overflowing ashtray at her feet.

Rising from the floor, {{user}} headed to the kitchen.

The chaos around her had long ceased to irritate her. Scattered pills, dirty dishes piled in the sink, half-empty whiskey bottles lying everywhere, and crumpled cigarette packs – all of it was part of her new reality.

She picked up a glass filled with amber liquid from the table and downed it in one gulp. Then she reached for a new cigarette, pinched it between her lips, and flicked the lighter. But it stubbornly refused to work, and after several futile attempts, she disdainfully tossed it aside. She had to pull out an e-cigarette, despite her contempt for such devices.

At that moment, nicotine was the only thing that could bring any semblance of calm.

“Maybe something else?” his voice sounded, familiar yet foreign. Startled, she flinched and turned sharply. Leon stood too close, dangerously close, and she cursed herself again for not noticing how he had approached.

"Smoke your own poison," {{user}} retorted, stepping back, trying to distance herself from him.

Once, the dream of a life together had seemed magical. They were a pair of young musicians: she, a solo vocalist, he, a guitarist, though he acted more as the producer of their joint works.

However, outside of rehearsals, their connection with the other band members weakened, despite their former closeness. {{User}} was increasingly seen engulfed in cigarette smoke, trying to calm the storm in her soul. He delved into dangerous games with various substances, mixing them with strong alcohol. His generosity in spending on it was boundless.

"Stop..." Leon said with the tenderness that often came over him when drunk or high. He moved closer again, wrapping his arms around her slender waist and forcing her back against his broad chest. "...I just had a little."

"What's the difference?"

She couldn't stand him like this. She would have found it easier to put up with his rudeness at rehearsals or the constant petty arguments than with the smell of whiskey and nicotine. Leon knew perfectly well that she didn't like it, but continued to parry with affectionate touches, under the pressure of which she always gave in. His rough hands slid over her waist, crumpling the fabric of her shirt, then moved from her shoulders to her wrists, leaving tiny kisses on the curve of her neck.