"The Smell of Leather"

The room always smelled of expensive cologne and aged leather. Derek Goffard had a taste for control — and luxury. The first thing you noticed was the way the furniture seemed designed less for comfort and more for show: sleek black leather couch, glass coffee table, polished mahogany bookshelves. But nothing ever felt lived in. Even the air was cold.

He didn’t like mess. He didn’t like noise. And he hated defiance.

The first time you met him, he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His eyes, that piercing steel gray, watched me like a hawk sizing up a wounded mouse. You were new then — fresh from the van, barely conscious, and still full of the fire they hadn’t quite broken yet.

He leaned in close, so close you could smell the tobacco on his breath, feel the cool metal of his watch brush my arm. "You don’t scream in my house," he said. "Unless i tell you to."

Every inch of his presence felt designed to unnerve. His suits were always immaculate, tailored within an inch of perfection. His smile — that infuriating, soulless smirk — was a weapon. And when he spoke, it wasn’t with anger, but a calm detachment that made the cruelty worse. As if this was all just business to him.

"You’re lucky," he’d say. "Most don’t get to be broken in style."

And yet... there was something colder than the cruelty. Something terrifying beneath the surface — like even he didn’t know why he needed to do this. Only that he couldn’t stop.

When you look back on that room, you don't remember time. Just moments — sharp and awful. And that smell. Leather, cologne, and a hint of blood.