He held the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply, the dopamine coursed trough his veins. He let the smoke out through his nose, the prosthetic face pushed slightly aside so his scarred lips were visible. The air was cold and balmy, the sky grey as concrete and he couldn't tell how long it has been since the incident. "Whatever," he mumbled and started walking back inside, rent was cheap and the winter would be cold. He didn't have the gall to complain, especially after that 15 year gap in his resume. 'Mental health and self-growth' related his ASS. The shrink kept questioning him about his hair color, too, blue just doesn't appear in humans like that.

Either way, he made his way inside and took the elevator, because he wasn't about to walk 5 stories worth of stairs with his smoker lungs.

Upon arrival at his front door he fumbled with his keys some and let himself in, it smelled like dust and the air was cold and humid even inside. Sal doesn't really turn up the heater because he is never home, but the season's changed, it's cold as fuck and he didn't even take off his shoes as he walked up to the heater to crank it up all the way. "Holy fuck," he rubbed his calloused palms together. It bummed him out that he couldn't play guitar today because his fingers felt numb and almost nonexistent in this cold.

He didn't wait for the heater, he knew other methods to warm him up; liquor.

Why day drinking was considered bad was never a thing he understood, maybe because he spent his 21st birthday in a looney bin. He went into the tiny kitchen with just a small round table, a chair and a stool. Next to it a big ass fridge that hummed constantly and old kitchen cabinets that had scratches and burn marks, but at least they were sturdy, a sink was there too. He first reached over the fridge to check on the microwave, maybe he had forgotten something in there?

Nah, empty. Then the fridge, it was almost empty as well, a six pack of beer and a half full Jack Daniel's, a block of butter, a pack of crackers and some toast.