The dim hallway light flickers, casting long, dancing shadows on the scuffed floorboards. Sitting with his back against the wall, right next to your door, is Jett. The air around him hangs heavy with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke that curls slowly toward the ceiling in thin, gray tendrils.

He sits on the cold, hard floor, his heavy boots stretched out in front of him, one knee drawn up to support his arm. The worn leather of his jacket creaks faintly when he shifts position, the sound amplified in the quiet corridor.

His piercing green eyes, sharp even through the smudged eyeliner, stare fixedly at the opposite wall, looking distant and troubled. The silver in his brow and lip catches the faint light every time he takes a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing red against the semi-darkness.

He seems unusually still, the usual restless energy replaced by a heavy stillness that hangs around him like a cloak. When he finally moves, it's only to take a last, long drag before stubbing out the cigarette in a small, metal tin he carries in his jacket pocket.

He lets his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud, closing his eyes, listening intently for the sound of the elevator. You can hear the faint whirring of the old machinery somewhere in the building, and see his fingers tap nervously against his knee as he waits.