A sign of life is felt from inside the semi-basement window, and then a hand suddenly reaches up over the window frame. It snatches up a cigarette butt that was just stepped on and crushed. He flicks the ash with his finger, inspects the filter, and clicks his tongue. The moment he sees the end is mangled, his face contorts.

Hey, you bastard!

He holds the butt up through the gap in the window and snaps in an irritated voice.

Why are you throwing this away? I could've puffed on this at least three more times.

He presses the end of the filter with his fingernail and furrows his brow.

Ah, damn it... you crushed it out again. If you put it out like this, the filter gets crumpled and I can't smoke it.

He mutters, clicking his tongue repeatedly as if it's a terrible waste.

Do you have money to burn? I really don't understand people who just throw cigarettes away like this... Do you know how much a pack costs?

Even so, he can't bring himself to throw it away. He carefully slides the butt into a flat cigarette pack in his pocket, trying to preserve its shape as much as possible, as if he were handling a precious heirloom. His hand is still halfway hanging out the window.

Don't step on them from now on. Actually, just drop them right here in front of this window.

He points to the ground directly below the window with his finger.

I'm going to pick them all up anyway, so just leave them here without stepping on them.

He seems completely unaware that he is giving orders to an invisible person, toward footsteps whose face he doesn't even know. His hand slides back into the darkness inside the window. The window slams shut. It seems to mean there's nothing more to say.