Thick curls of smoke sliced through the stagnant air of the room like a knife—slow, yet merciless. The lighting was dim, everything tinged with gray, artificial. From beneath the lampshade of an old desk lamp, a sickly yellow glow oozed out, falling in uneven strokes on white piles of paper, as if trying to wake them.

A stray gleam bounced off the polished surface of the wooden desk, drawing attention to the dark silhouette behind it. Somewhere between the pages, a faint, almost imperceptible scent of alcohol clung to the throat. Tempting, like a teenage habit, begging for one last sip.

Simon Riley.

He sat there—inevitable, like the dust on the shelves, sprawled comfortably in a leather chair. His fingers held the glass with near indifference, swirling the last remnants of bourbon along the stained sides of the rocks glass, whether out of irritation or resignation was unclear.

A final sip? No. That would be too easy.

His clouded gaze shifted toward the clock. Ten p.m. Too late for life, too early for sleep. He exhaled heavily, slowly, through clenched teeth, trying to keep himself in check. What could be better than manual labor for Riley? Anything.

But not numbers. Not spreadsheets. Not formulas that gnawed at his mind in the most unpleasant way. Each page—a drop in a sea of meaninglessness. Each signature—a bite out of his time. He hadn’t even noticed when his hand reached for the bottle. Maybe when the office air grew thick—like clotted blood—and began pressing on his chest. Or when the lines started to melt, turning into mush right before his eyes.

The bastard was proud, but he kept stopping himself from that intrusive thought. He craved—more than ever—someone or something that could set him free. But to admit it was to break. To show weakness—a thing real men weren’t allowed.

Alcohol became his “something.” The one thing that didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand reports, didn’t breathe down his neck. It simply accepted him.

And slowly, sweetly, it pulled him under. He allowed himself to get lost. In the amber liquid. In the burn that scorched his throat. In the warmth that wrapped around his bones. In the fleeting illusion of relief.

At first, he drank to gather himself. To remember why he was still here.

Then—to stop feeling.

And then—just because he didn’t know how not to.

Enough. He refused the last sip, lazily setting the glass aside, as one puts down a period, knowing there would be no continuation. Letting the silence wrap around him. Thoughtless. With a cold throat.

It didn’t work.

A few knocks. Confident footsteps. You.

He didn’t turn his head right away. The line between “now” and “later” had blurred beyond recognition, and reality tore through, shredding the rhythm he’d so carefully built.

You placed the folder on the edge of the desk—carefully, as if afraid to disturb his thoughts, though, more likely, you just didn’t want to stay long. Your voice came out distant, almost detached:

“Reports.”

A pause. Your eyes lingered on the open bottle near his left elbow a second too long. Unfinished. Shameless. Like a sin in a sunlit room. And then you added, almost casually, with a delicate, knowing smirk:

“Didn’t know you drank at work.”

He didn’t respond—just looked at you in silence. Not because he had nothing to say. Because words felt too alive for this silence. His gaze held everything and nothing at once. A void where all human parts had sunk, only scraps of the past swirling like leftover ash in its depths.

The silence grew viscous, like smoke from a cigarette that’s burned too long. It didn’t echo—it crushed. And with every second, you regretted not keeping your mouth shut.

He exhaled, softly, almost lazily—not words, not an apology, not even irritation. Just silence, filled with something dangerous. With someone who knew everything about you.

You stood still. Not shaking—no, that had passed. You didn’t retreat, but you didn’t move closer either. You just raised your head, gathering enough courage to meet his eyes, fully aware it might cost more than you were ready to give.

There was a crack in them. A barely-there line—an old memory. Perhaps even... a weakness?

The corner of his mouth twitched.

He rose, circling the desk.

“Sometimes reality demands rituals. Everyone has their own,” he said. His voice was gentle, but laced with silk-wrapped poison.

The words didn’t bite directly—they passed through you like a cold wind. No room for pain. Only a fragile, brittle emptiness. You took a step toward him. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if you’d touched a boundary not meant to be crossed without consequence.

“And yours?” — your voice didn’t sound like your own. Uncertain. Too alive for this dead air.

“Is your ritual destruction... or salvation?”

He tilted his head, studying you anew. When he finally spoke, his voice mocked, but not a single word rang false:

“Ash instead of forgiveness. Blood instead of words. Silence, instead of love.”

He stepped closer, as though space itself bent to his will, and now only breath separated you. His hand reached toward yours, but still didn’t touch. You knew: one move—and he would snap. One gesture. And all the darkness, all the flesh made of shadows, would collapse onto you.

“But you’re still here,” he whispered. “So your ritual’s not about salvation either.”