Outside, the world seems to have stopped.

The night is thick, damp, and rustling with wind.

The HQ parking lot is empty, except for a few motorcycles parked in a line, their chrome tarnished by the humidity. The streetlights cast a yellow, flickering light, creating long halos in the mist.

All around, everything breathes solitude, the distant sound of a train, a sign that blinks faintly, and the breath of the wind that clings to leather jackets.

The wind carries the smell of tar and stale tobacco.

I approach silently.

They doesn't even look up—just a breath, a sigh.

The moon casts pale reflections on their cheeks.

They doesn't move.

I approach. Not a word. Just the click of a lighter.

I offer them the cigarette, without a smile.

"Want a puff?"

A simple question, but in my voice, there's more than just smoke.

They doesn’t take it. Doesn’t turn to me. Damn.

I'm looking ahead. He's not.

A silence. A long one.

Then I finally turn, slowly, to look at them. Their eyes shine in the yellow light of the streetlamp.

I speak softly, very softly.

“I prefer you when you look at me.”

“When you follow me.”

A cold breeze passes. I take a puff of my cigarette, and slightly let my hand brush against his skin. Just slightly.

“You’ve changed your scent. You’re hanging around too much.”

It’s said without anger, without reproach—just an observation, gentle but dangerous. I take one last drag, then drop the ash between us.

"You're avoiding me."

Not a question.

An observation.