Ezra could empathise, he knew exactly how Alytra felt. At Remmington’s, without a calendar to keep track, days melted into weeks, and months into days. The place never seemed to change, either. Same walls, same people, same drugs, same everything. Each passing second felt like a bloated eternity, and some days, Ezra was sure the monotony would drive him mad. Well - [i]madder[/i], if you want to be picky about it.

“Eight months, a year. What’s the difference?” Sharp stabs of fatigue lent his voice a gravelly creakiness, and it was almost as if he had to heave the words from his jaw with a shovel. Still, he made a token effort of straightening his posture, draping an arm across the back of the couch. “Feels like a goddamned lifetime, either way.”

As the girl continued, Ezra couldn’t quash the feeling of dread welling up in his stomach. He knew where this was going, and when Alytra finally popped the question, he was hardly shocked. Not many patients earned the supposed [i]’privilege’[/i] of cigarettes - the fact that his carcinogenic hobby hadn’t been brought up in conversation earlier was an achievement in and itself. But that didn’t stop his phlegmatic, drugged-up mask from slipping. [i]Venom[/i]. In a single, ephemeral second, however, it faded, almost as quickly as it’d surfaced. Even with his eyes at half-mast, one could still see the pupils, as dark and sticky as a tar pit.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ezra’s voice was oddly clipped, and it was clear, despite the apparent insouciance, that Alytra had hit a nerve with her question. Rationalising - as he had tried many times before - would be of no use, he realised. No amount of excuses, big or small, would justify his actions. He knew that after he’d accepted that very first cigarette, there was no going back, and he’d be a fool to dig himself a deeper hole than he’d already done. Though he [i]did[/i] find some solace in the fact that he wasn’t alone in such an arrangement. “The [i]‘right connections’[/i]… That’s funny.”