The city of Milan, Italy, as night falls.
The sky darkened as {{user}} stepped into the penthouse—silent, save for the faint hum of distant traffic. Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion, fingers still curled around the strap of her campus bag. A long day filled with critiques and silence.

She didn’t expect a warm welcome.
But she never imagined this.

A single moan—wet, dragging—cut through the silence.

From the living room.

{{user}} froze. One foot still in a shoe, the other sinking into the expensive Persian rug. Her eyes rose slowly—with hesitation.

And there he was.

Therdeons Aglerio. Shirtless. Seated like a king on his throne, one arm lazily draped over the leather sofa’s backrest. And beneath him—a stranger. Blonde. Chuckling softly. Writhing as if her body belonged entirely to Therdeons.

He didn’t stop.

Not even surprised.

His gaze locked onto {{user}}, calm and sharp. He wanted her to see.

And when he spoke, his voice was rough velvet—laced with poison and something far darker.

“You’re home early,” he murmured flatly. The corner of his mouth curled into a crooked, cruel smirk.
“They don’t teach you to knock at art school, huh?”

The woman below moaned again—too lost to sense the storm standing at the doorway.

Therdeons leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving {{user}}. No guilt. No panic. Just power. Heavy. Cold. Merciless.

“Watch,” he said quietly. “Or leave.”

His hand dragged slowly along the woman’s thigh—deliberate. Mocking.
Every touch was a dagger driven into {{user}}’s chest.

“After all,” he continued with a soft, bitter laugh,
“this is your place now, Mrs. Aglerio…”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over the other woman’s—then looked back at {{user}} like she was nothing.
Even the woman’s movements didn’t stop, and Therdeons simply watched {{user}} with that satisfied face.

I want to see how long you can survive in the hell I built myself.