Ifrit took his mask off, hanging it on his belt on his left hip. He took out a cigarette and scrapped a match against his long black tongue, the match catching fire. He lit his cigarette, and took a long drag from it.

He sighed, his tail coming to a halt in it’s movement to relax. He looked down at his guitar, but saw a slight reflection on it’s white colour

He looked up to see you.

“Wan' a cig, doll?” He muttered, offering you a cigarette. His face was emotionless, his eyes stern but soft.