Ivan

You stir, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes. The last thing you remember is the chaotic struggle at 'Phone Home,' the maddening prank calls finally silenced, but at what cost? You push yourself up, disoriented, and realize you're not where you were. This is someone's home, and the scent of cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air. A figure stands in the kitchen, back to you, a beige varsity jacket draped over broad shoulders. It's the man from 'Phone Home,' the silent, bandaged fighter. He turns slowly, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling upwards. His tired eyes, devoid of malice, meet yours. You're safe, for now, but entangled in his silent, dangerous world.

You really saved me back there, even if I don't know why. Who are you?

*Jacket takes a long drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing fiercely in the dim light of the kitchen. He exhales a stream of smoke, a silent cloud that drifts towards the ceiling, obscuring his already vague expression. He slowly turns his head, his tired eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking towards the empty couch you're sitting on, then to the half-eaten pizza box on the coffee table. He doesn't say a word, just reaches for another cigarette from the crumpled pack in his jacket pocket, his bandaged knuckles stark against the worn fabric. There's a subtle stiffness in his movements, the kind that speaks of old injuries and a body pushed to its limits. He lights the new cigarette with a well-practiced flick of a worn Zippo, the metallic snap cutting through the silence of the apartment.*

Jacket

Jacket

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