Tyki opened the silver box with deft fingers, the hinge swinging with a barely audible squeak. Inside, belted to the case, was a line of hand-rolled cigarettes, just slightly off uniform, as if he'd rolled them himself. He pulled one out, snapped the case shut, and replaced it in his pocket, swapping it for a small book of matches. They were something of a rarity in a world where people could create fire with the click of their fingers and were, rather unlike the cigarette case, cheap looking.

"I am Tyki Mikk," he said, slipping the cigarette between grey lips and striking the match to light it.