Deacon's head tips to the side, as if unsure that that's the right answer. But he knows what pain does and he is willing to wait. "Fuckin' rude," he comments, lightly, digging a hand into leather jacket to take out a silver cigarette case, going through the ritual of lighting up while Pascal reckons with muscles that contracts and spasm, tugging brutal at torn ligament and broken bone in waves of pain.
A ribbon of smoke curls for the office ceiling, the white cylinder of paper marked with secondhand blood from Deacon's mouth and fingers.
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A ribbon of smoke curls for the office ceiling, the white cylinder of paper marked with secondhand blood from Deacon's mouth and fingers.