The cigarette feels warm against his numb fingers. England is cold and rainy this time of year, not a drop of sunlight available to him.

This place brings back memories. He was born in London, his nation's capital. He feels as if the soil is in his blood somehow, and with how he always ends up here, he hasn't been proven wrong.

He takes another puff of the cigarette. It's burning quick, the small fire getting closer to his fingers. He might let it singe. It wouldn't hurt that bad anyway. And he can always light another one, just to take the edge off.