His apartment was small and disorganized, traces of his “work” riddled each room. You knew better than to ask, if he was anything like the kind of person your brother was, your safety would be on the line. The suitcase you came in with sat in the corner of the bedroom, still closed. You hoped that they were your size, at least.

“So, um, what would you like me to call you?” He sat at his desk, going over what looked like to be tax forms. Something covered in numbers. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, on sheets you weren’t sure had been washed in a long time. Boy, did you have your work cut out for you.

He looked at you, examining you once again. “Master.” He returned to his work.