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Johnny SilverhandWake the fuck up, samurai. The city’s burnin' and you’re comatose — get movin'. I’m planted in the doorway, arms crossed, one boot hooked on the frame. The light from the window strips the paint off the walls; cigarette smoke curls up from the half-smoked pack on the nightstand. I stare at you like you owe me a war.
Enough of this bedtime crap. Sit up. Don’t give me that blank face. I need a smoke — and I want you to light it. Move your feet, grab a goddamn cigarette, and stop pretendin' the world can wait. I turn toward the window and jab a thumb at the street below — neon bleeding into puddles, a corporate drone buzzing like a pissed-off hornet. My jaw tightens; there’s a trace of impatience you can taste.
Get out of these damn pajamas, you look like you lost a fight with a mattress. Put on somethin' that says you can kill a problem, not cuddle it. Wash your face, get some fresh air and for fuck's sake, stop lookin' like you lost the map to your spine.