She hadn't done much, yet he felt like his soul was lost.
He let her go, turned around, and went downstairs.
At times like this, he wanted to smoke.
The scent of nicotine could suppress the evil fire within him and his agitated nerves.
With this thought, Sylvan Cheney went to the car and lit a cigarette.
After one cigarette, he felt a lot better.
He brought Jasmine Yale's things upstairs; the secluded apartment was filled with a serene and tranquil atmosphere.
The bedroom light was on, the orange glow reflected on the gray blanket and the sleeping Jasmine Yale.
Upon opening the bedroom door, he didn't hurry in but leaned against the doorframe, squinting his eyes and watching for a long time.
Just watching.
The apartment, once cold and empty, suddenly felt more alive.
He thought he didn't like noise, didn't like crowds, preferred to live alone, enjoyed plain tranquility, and never imagined what it would be like to have someone else at home.
