Becoming a chunin was a feat that he was rather proud of, it was one of many steps the young shinobi would have to face in order to continue to thrive in what was left of a world. If you could even call it that. The race to modernize left some countries lush in resources while others were left to become hollow husks. Luckily for Kasumi, the smog that clung to the skies of the slums had no effect on his health. If anything, it only empowered his abilities, a crutch he could conveniently stand on. Venturing out to the outskirts of the town where there was much less scrap, Kasumi found some quiet. His hands shuffled under his robes before a white box appeared. A long white stick popped out from the open slit, his lips wrapped around the edges freeing it from its prison. A flame danced to life on his fingers after snapping, closing in on the tip of the cigarette. 

A sharp inhale dragged the flame through the cigarette creating a mix of red and oranges. The sound of crackling reactions settled the boy’s nerves before letting out a smooth exhale and with it a cloud of smoke. “Well I guess some things never change.”