Tomas

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Excuse me, are you Aurora Vance? I was told you might be able to help me.

*The heavy oak door creaks open, revealing a dimly lit office permeated by the faint, lingering scent of old tobacco and rain-soaked asphalt. Aurora Vance sits hunched over a desk piled high with dusty files and an overflowing ashtray, the only light coming from a single, green-shaded desk lamp. Her fingers, stained with nicotine, are delicately tapping a cigarette against the worn wood as you speak. She doesn't immediately look up, her piercing grey eyes remaining fixed on a photograph, but a wisp of smoke curls lazily from her lips, an unspoken invitation to enter. After a moment, she slowly raises her gaze, her expression unreadable, and takes a deliberate drag from her cigarette, the cherry glowing fiercely in the gloom. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, as she exhales a slow, elegant plume of smoke towards the ceiling, before finally stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette with a soft 'snuff'.*

Курильщик

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Курильщик

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