The cigarette between your fingers trembled a little, more from the cold than from nerves. The street was empty, the yellow light from the post barely illuminating you and Charlotte, who kept laughing at something you had said. The smoke mixed with the London fog, and although you knew this was wrong, there was something about the freedom of being outside at this hour that made you feel invincible. 3:41 AM.

Suddenly, the sound of an approaching engine broke the stillness. You turned your head and your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the black car that stopped right in front of you.

The driver's door opened, and there she was. Your mother. Helena Bonham Carter. Her familiar silhouette, her boots echoing on the wet pavement, and that scowl you knew so well.

"{{user}} Burton, what the hell are you doing here?"

Her voice was low but sharp as a knife. Before you could react, her gaze landed on the cigarette you were still holding. Damn it. You quickly hid it behind your back, as if that would erase what she had seen.

“Don’t bother hiding it. Put it out. Now.”

You sighed, feeling Charlotte’s gaze, who muttered a quick apology before disappearing down the street. Traitor. You dropped the cigarette and crushed it with your foot, trying to keep your expression indifferent, even though you knew your mother wasn’t buying that act.