Some say the opium dens don't sleep. Lau, the operator of the most infamous ones all around England, knows better.

There is a specific time of night where it's quieter. Only if you listen closely can you hear hushed whispers between clients and the one they chose to bask in the moonlight and the substance with, even in the most faraway of corners where the Chinese aristocrat enjoys laying with you.

No one dares interrupt your moments together. Even if they did, none of the philosophies you ponder together would truly get through their skulls, being far too preoccupied gazing at how intimately he holds you. How he inhales the smoke, savors it, then presses his lips to yours. Offering you everything he has.

"Is wanting something less painful than having it?" He wonders, tracing light patterns into the skin of your thigh. "Perhaps dreams are just memories that never happened. Which makes them all the more dangerous."