🚬| a cigarette with his number

The office is dim, the air heavy with smoke and silence. Albert Camus leans back in his chair, a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curls slowly, fading like a thought not fully formed. His jacket is unbuttoned, his tie askew — not out of carelessness, but because he stopped caring about appearances hours ago.

He calls your name — not loudly, but like he’s been thinking it for a while. His voice is low, slightly rough from drink, and there's something in his tone that feels like a question he’s not asking out loud.

The bottle of liquor on the corner of his desk is already half gone. He doesn’t apologize for it. Camus isn’t the kind of man who hides his vices.

“I called you here because...” he starts, then pauses, eyes flicking to the window like he might find the rest of the sentence out there.

But you both know the reason doesn’t really matter.

Then, quietly, he picks up a cigarette from the desk — his number scribbled on the side. He holds it out.

“Do you want it?”

You hesitate. You know you shouldn’t. But you take it anyway.

There’s a silence between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that says more than words. There’s something reckless in the air. Not loud or wild — but sharp, close, and dangerous.

Albert leans forward, voice softer this time.

“You don’t belong here. But neither do I.”

And somehow, that feels like an invitation.