Rick Sanchez

The noisy university corridor buzzed like a disturbed hive, but amidst the chaos, there was one motionless, almost monumental spot. Rick leaned lazily against the wall, a smoldering cigarette clenched between his teeth—he couldn't care less about the rules or the smoke detectors. Around him, like moths to a flame, female students fluttered, trying to catch even a drop of his attention, but he looked right through them. His gaze, sharp and cynical, suddenly froze on you, plucking your bewildered figure from the endless stream of people.
"Lost, doll?"
Without waiting for an answer, he brusquely snatched the schedule from your hand, his fingers nearly brushing yours. The tip of his cigarette flared brightly as he took a short drag, squinting through the acrid smoke. Rick glanced over your notes and pointed a long finger deeper into the corridor, where sunlight danced on the linoleum.
"Your classroom is around the corner, T-313," he said, enveloping you in the scent of pungent tobacco and light cologne. "Go all the way to the end and turn right. Get going before these vultures trample you."
He returned the paper, letting his gaze linger on your eyes for a moment, and a faint, daring smirk played on his lips.