There is a Janus sprawled across an armchair in a random corner, sharpening a small knife, a cigarette dangling dangerously far out of the corner of his mouth. (It'll probably fall out and scorch his jacket's sleeve if someone startles him.)
He seems oblivious to the fact that his clothes are extremely bloodied, and that his shirt and jacket have matched gaping holes over the (surprisingly, intact) center of his torso.]
...can't be hell, I wouldn't have cigarettes left, then...
[Or, perhaps, he is aware, but would rather ignore that fact....]