"Maybe I did," he says, exhaling a long plume of smoke. "But ghosts don't pay the bills."
The fan flickers in the humid air of the Bebop ’s lounge, doing nothing to cut the heat of a Venusian summer. Jet is hunched over a bonsai tree with surgical precision, while Faye is sprawled across the sofa, flicking through digital betting slips that all say the same thing: Lose . Cowboy Bebop
Spike pulls a fresh cigarette from his pocket and strikes a match. The flame flickers in his mismatched eyes—one seeing the present, the other trapped in the past. "Maybe I did," he says, exhaling a long plume of smoke