"He drew one from a silver case, holding it between his fingers. Bringing it to his lips, he rested one hand on the desk—where I usually write—while slipping his other hand into the pocket of his elegant suit, searching for a lighter. When he pulled it out, it was a black Zippo. He flipped the cap open with a soft click, struck the flint, and lit his cigarette. He began to smoke, wearing a conceited smile, before blowing the smoke high into the air. Clearing his throat, he looked at me, and his gaze pierced right through my heart.
'Won't you just let me out of your head? I want to breathe inside a novel.'
Panic seized me; my lips tensed, and my heart hammered like a woodpecker.Taking a leap of courage, I asked him:'Why should I? You belong exactly where you are; it suits me.'
He raised an eyebrow, flicked some ash into a crystal ashtray, and replied:'I’ve read your dark thoughts.'
'Really? And what’s wrong with that?!'He flashed a mocking smile. Bringing the cigarette to his lips once more, he took a short drag, then exhaled while slightly curling his lower lip upward.
'You are too weak to speak of them.'The moment he finished his sentence, his features hardened, and his gaze turned to stone. He stepped closer to me, extinguished his cigarette right in my coffee, locked his eyes with mine in a defiance, and added:'And I am too strong to remain silent.'"