The door swung open.
Smoke hit me first—thick, acrid, burning its way down my throat before I could stop it. I coughed, harsh and sudden, my hand flying to my mouth.
Who smokes inside?
The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the corner. Shadows pooled in the corners like spilled ink. And there, slouched in a leather armchair, was a man.
His legs were crossed at the ankle, boots propped on an ottoman. One hand dangled over the armrest, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, ash threatening to fall. His head was tilted down, black hair falling across his face, obscuring everything except the faint glow of ember and the thin trail of smoke curling toward the ceiling.
I stood in the doorway, frozen.
The man exhaled. A slow, deliberate stream of smoke escaped his lips, dissolving into the dim light. His head lifted slightly. Hair shifted. And I saw them.
His eyebrows.
