Sep 9, 2025
Boothill snickers, smoke curling from his nostrils as the cigarette clung to the corner of his mouth. He only shook his head. Sampo Koski just didn't get it.
“You got ’til the count of ten.” he drawled, plucking the cigarette free and flicking it aside. His metal heel grinds the embers into the concrete, smoke hissing in protest.
“Five… four, ” a grin spread slow across his bronze face.