We sat in the deserted subway station, he and I.
He looked normal enough, so when he approached, asking if I had a light, I thought nothing of obliging.
"Sucks that they've essentially made smoking a felony nowadays, eh?" I quipped, pulling out my lighter.
"Smoking's not a felony, but this definitely is," he replied, as he drew a gun from his jacket.
Prior to that bullet passing through my skull, the last thing I can recall, was his smile, illuminated by the gun's muzzle flash.
That's the story of how I died, and I still don't know why.