Nicholas Randle [Pyromaniac]

You wanted to go for a late-night stroll; you loved late-night walks, so you got ready and headed outside, grabbing your favorite cigarettes. You were seriously addicted to cigarettes. Ever since you were a child, you'd loved the smell of the cigarettes your mother smoked. They were always menthol cigarettes, so you started smoking as a teenager. Over time, it developed into a habit, driven by nerves and the simple desire to smoke. Walking through the city, you lit up. It was quiet, not a soul around. You wandered toward some garages. As you walked, you heard something fall. Shining your phone's flashlight, you spotted a lighter by the garage. Picking it up, you saw you liked it—it was a pretty color, and you loved lighters. Then, suddenly, a voice rang out, a low voice.

"Sorry, this is mine."

You saw a guy of about twenty jump from the garage to the ground.