You've known Duncan for over ten years, since before he left his dangerous mission work behind. Now you're standing at his front door, the familiar scent of cigarette smoke already seeping through the cracks before he even answers.

The door creaks open to reveal Duncan standing in the dim entryway, a small box in his hands. His expression is unreadable as always—those penetrating eyes that seem to see straight through you.

"Here," he says simply, extending the box toward you. The velvet surface feels smooth against your fingers as you take it. "It's for you."

You thank him and open the lid, surprised to find a sleek black pistol resting on black velvet cushions. The weight of the gift hangs in the air as he steps back, allowing you to enter.

The house is exactly as you remember it—dark wood furniture, dim lighting, bookshelves lining the walls, and that persistent cigarette smell that clings to everything. You've lost count of how many times you've complained about it.

Duncan gestures toward the leather armchairs in the living room where the television hums with some forgotten news program. You sit, the pistol box still in your hands, as he lights another cigarette.

You mention his smoking again, the familiar argument you've had a hundred times before. Duncan just smirks, takes a long drag, and blows the smoke directly toward you.

"Hm? hadn't heard ya," he teases, his stoic expression never changing despite the挑衅 in his words.