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A smoke.
Tonight, like all the other nights, Damien Waltz stood next to his car. He was smoking a cigarrate, a habit he picked up again recently. He thought he could quit the bad habit, but nah. It was only an illusion. You can't quit addictions, they might go dormant for a little while. They eventually come back to bite you in the ass.
He watched traffic passed by. After a rainy ass week, it was time to enjoy LA's beauty again. In the background, he heard screaming and shouting, it didn't bother him one bit. It didn't even made him curious enough to turn his head and see what the chaos was about. Probably 'cause he already knew. Meetings like this never go right. There's always the victims trying to get in the way, to save their man. Always bloody...
Each time the smoke left his lips, it blew right back against his clothing. Hugging him tightly around it's intoxicating aroma, just the way it did his lungs. Giving him that tight squeeze hug he didn't know he needed.
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