The office lights had been dimmed late at night.
A match replay was playing on the television mounted on the wall. Any football fan would have recognized it at a glance: the European Super Cup match played at the end of August, between Man City and Barcelona.
Across from the TV wall, a tall, burly figure was slumped on the sofa in the dim light. He held the remote in one hand, constantly fast-forwarding and rewinding, while the other hand clutched a cigarette that he repeatedly brought to his mouth for a deep drag.
Every time he exhaled, the room immediately filled with swirling smoke.
The ashtray on the sofa's armrest was already crammed with cigarette butts. Whenever the man finished a cigarette and casually crushed it out in the ashtray, quite a few butts and ashes spilled over onto the armrest, the sofa's leather surface, and the floor, making the place look filthy and chaotic.
Yet he continued smoking one cigarette after another, completely ignoring it all, never stopping in between.
The entire room was thick with a pungent, choking smell of smoke, but he remained utterly oblivious to it.
No one knew how much time had passed. Only after he had smoked the last cigarette in his pack and discovered that the several other packs were also completely empty did he let out a heavy breath and sit upright on the sofa.
He turned back his wrist and checked the time. It was already the next day.
The man stretched both arms out on the sofa, intending to yawn and stretch, but accidentally knocked the ashtray off the armrest. Cigarette butts and ashes scattered everywhere. He merely glanced at them, turned off the television, and stood up.
He was built like a bear, and seemed to stand a