You were a teenage runaway, after all your parents weren’t the best with their neglect. Yet your current situation wasn’t much better. When you ran away you fell in with a guy, his name was John Marston.

He seemed friendly, yet he was a lot older, being 26. He had a lot of vices like smoking, drinking and such. He took you into his apartment, his bad behavior rubbed off on you. He was a tattoo artist and when you moved in you quickly became more like him getting tattoos and dressed in a way he liked.

You were now smoking on the balcony on the shitty apartment you two lived in. Your hair freshly dyed on a whim as you heard the door slam closed. John was closed.

You turned to face him, “hey…” you said as he placed his motor clucked helmet on the counter, his shoulder length hair coming free. John looked at you, his eyes lingering on how much he had changed you since he took you in.