In the smoke-filled room, the three youths remained silent.
Robin just kept on puffing at his cigarette, with dull breathing accompanying the dimly lit sparks flickering on and off.
Nightingale turned her face in disgust towards the side of the room that didn't have a view of Marseille.
Marseille's head was lowered deeply, his fists clenched tightly together, his eyes stared fixedly at the ground, as if the carpet in front of him, the rose petals, and withered branches scattered on the floor at some point held some great secret that, once deciphered, could yield a windfall of fortune.
An awkward and peculiar silence lay between the three of them, the Sitting Clock styled in classical aesthetic ticked monotonously, and time trickled away to the accompaniment of its ticking.
Perhaps unable to bear the near suffocating atmosphere, Robin stamped his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray with force and said:
"This kid's no good."
"It's not that he's no good, it's that he can't."
