“If you keep smoking like that, you’ll die before you’re a hundred.”
He glares. “Who wants to live that long? You’ll be decrepit and useless, unable to handle a gun.”
She shrugs. “It’s not that bad,” she says casually. “Being a hundred.”
He pauses, the cigarette held motionless in one hand, staring.
“You are not serious…”
And Vermouth just smiles.