New York, 1965.

“Here,” his melodic voice catches your attention, and you turn to look him in the eye as he leans closer to you. “‘Ave a puff of this, sweet thing.” He waves his cigarette in your face and, not thinking much of it, you wrap your lips around it, watching his gaze darken as he freely admired your pretty features. Admiring what's his.

“Good,” he drawls, that accent that you’d come to love thick and heavy, only intensified by his sly croon. He shuffles closer to you, draping his arm around the back of the sofa, his hand splayed across your left shoulder. “So perfect,” he purrs, baring his fangs at you as a wide smile takes up on his face.