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Summary
ace’s smirk was spaded. “need company?”
“no,” the man’s glanced at him, amusement layered with sleepiness. “i want it, though.”
he brought the pack to his mouth and tore the plastic off its belly, teeth-first. an unrecognisable brand, without the death porn sleeve or fatalistic sans-serif. it was black, matte, and stamped with a noisy gold seal. snaring the overwrap between two fingers, he yanked the paper out of place and held the pack to ace.
cigs, sardine-stacked, herded by the force of the man’s palm. ace nearly laughed. never seen a set of smokes richer than me.
(on the worst night of the year, ace stops trying to outrun the calendar. sabo doesn't keep calendars at all).