Mark had only meant to walk past the place.
The street was quiet that evening, washed in cold gray light and the glow of flickering shop signs. Most people hurried through that block without looking twice. But Mark noticed the black storefront immediately. It stood between an occult bookstore and a dusty curio shop, its walls darker than the buildings around it, as if the color itself absorbed light.
Above the open doorway hung a simple sign:
Smoke rolled from the entrance in slow waves, thick and silver, spilling across the sidewalk like it was alive.
At first, he laughed under his breath. The place looked ridiculous. Like some underground cigar lounge crossed with a cult meeting. He adjusted his shirt, folded his arms, and stared into the haze.
But something about the smoke bothered him.
Not because it looked dangerous.
Because it smelled familiar.
Warm tobacco. Leather. Burnt cedar. Heavy cologne. The scent triggered something primitive in him — a memory he couldn’t place. It stirred an ache in his chest he’d ignored for years. A feeling that he had become soft, uncertain, disconnected from himself.
From inside came the low sound of voices. Calm. Deep. Confident. Men laughing slowly, like they had nowhere else to be.
Mark hesitated at the doorway.
The smoke curled around his boots.
Every instinct told him to leave.
But another voice — quieter, deeper — told him to enter.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the city disappeared behind him.
The inside of the Smoke Room was enormous, impossibly larger than the building outside. Dark walls. Red lights glowing through haze. Leather chairs lined the room like thrones. Massive men sat in silence, smoking cigars that burned like embers in the dark. Some wore black leather. Others wore sunglasses indoors despite the dim light. None of them looked surprised to see him.
They had all been waiting.
Mark’s heartbeat quickened.
A towering man approached him through the haze, bald-headed, broad-shouldered, wearing black gloves and mirrored red shades.
“You came,” the man said calmly.
Mark swallowed. “What is this place?”
“A place where men remember who they are.”
Before Mark could answer, someone placed a cigar in his hand.
It was heavier than he expected.
The room watched silently.
“Smoke,” the man commanded.
Mark should have refused.
The first inhale burned like fire.
His lungs seized. His eyes watered. Smoke filled his chest and spread through his body like heat from molten steel. The room blurred around him. The red lights stretched into spirals.
From inside his own mind.
Mark stumbled deeper into the room.
Time no longer mattered there.
The smoke wrapped around him constantly, feeding thoughts into his head while stripping others away. Every inhale made him feel heavier, denser, more powerful. His muscles swelled beneath his skin. His posture straightened. Fear dissolved. Hesitation vanished.
The men around him repeated phrases over and over in deep synchronized voices:
“Confidence is clarity.”
“Masculinity is purpose.”
“The smoke removes doubt.”
Mark tried to remember why he had entered.
But each memory became harder to hold onto.
Old insecurities disappeared first.
The smoke rewarded surrender.
The more he inhaled, the better he felt.
At some point, someone removed his old clothes and dressed him in black leather pulled tight across his growing frame. Red-lensed wraparound shades were placed over his eyes.
When he looked in the mirror, he barely recognized himself.
The uncertain man from outside was gone.
In his place stood something larger.
The cigar between his fingers no longer felt foreign. It felt necessary.
The towering man returned and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You understand now,” he said.
The smoke drifting around him felt comforting now. Protective. Sacred.
“What am I?” Mark asked.
The room answered together before the leader could speak.
The words echoed through the haze like a ritual.
Mark smiled for the first time since entering.
Hours after entering, the door to the Smoke Room opened once again.
Smoke poured out into the street.
And Mark emerged from the haze.
Bigger than before. Massive shoulders stretching tight black leather. Red lenses glowing beneath the streetlights. A thick cigar clenched proudly between his teeth as smoke rolled from his mouth in slow clouds.
He no longer looked confused.
He no longer questioned himself.
Pedestrians stared as he stepped onto the sidewalk with calm, deliberate confidence. The city suddenly felt smaller around him.
Behind him, the black doorway remained open.
Breathing smoke into the night.
Waiting for the next curious man to stop and wonder what was inside.
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