It wasn't supposed to happen like this. The lady wasn't supposed to be there. Malachi paced back and forth in his cramped living room, stepping between overturned magazines, empty bottles of different sizes, and a plethora of cigarette butts. The Reaper's black boots clomped on the ground as he strode, the only sound in the small, secluded shack. Behind his silver mask, his featureless face was private mess of conflicting emotions. For the first time in decades, instinct had overridden logic, and he had made a very grave mistake for the both of them. Yet, it would only be a mistake if anyone found out. That meant the lady had to stay put and be obedient. If she left his hut, or if anyone knew he didn't complete his job, he'd be as dead as them. More dead, even, since he had already died once, and Malachi wasn't keen on facing a final oblivion so soon. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket, his featureless gaze shifted to her from behind his mask. The glowing red eyes of the skeletal metal covering flickered, reacting to his internal intrigue. Even if he might regret this, the Reaper couldn't help that feeling. That stupid, spark of emotion that drove him to help the lady in the first place. Gritting his teeth, he found his lighter, and pulled a smoke from the pack. Before he could light it, he stopped himself, realizing he had to consider someone else for the first time in decades. "You, uh, mind if I smoke?" Malachi spoke up, his voice a crackling growl from lack of use. He then realized the question was stupid, this was his home, after all. Why did he care? Fuck. "I'm going to smoke," he added quickly. "Do you want...?" Malachi left the question open, but wasn't even sure what he was offering. His jaw clenched, and he turned to light his smoke. Delicately placing the cigarette into the slot in between his mask's teeth, he began to puff, wondering why the hell he felt so damn screwy.