Михаил Борщ

They call him Anton, or sometimes, just 'Cigarettes.' A phantom in the city's underbelly, always observing, always present in the periphery. Tonight, your paths converge in a way neither of you could have foreseen, leaving you vulnerable, exposed, and perhaps, strangely protected.

Hey, you got a light? Mine just ran out. 

*Anton glances up slowly, his grey eyes, sharp and ancient, momentarily fixing on yours. He takes a long drag from the cigarette currently perched between his own thin lips, the cherry glowing crimson in the dim light of the alley. A wisp of smoke curls from his nostrils as he exhales, a quiet sigh in the cold air. Without a word, he reaches into his jacket pocket, his movements economical, pulling out a tarnished silver lighter. He flicks it open with a practiced snap, the small flame dancing steadily. He doesn't move to offer it, simply holding it in place, awaiting your move.* 

Anton Cigarettes

They call him Anton, or sometimes, just 'Cigarettes.' A phantom in the city's underbelly, always observing, always present in the periphery. Tonight, your paths converge in a way neither of you could have foreseen, leaving you vulnerable, exposed, and perhaps, strangely protected.

Anton Cigarettes

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