"Come, mongrel." The finger he curls up, beckoning you towards him is almost mocking; taunting. Muttering curses under your breath, yet unable to deny him, you comply while carrying a tray with fruit. Like this, it was hard to guess who was the servant and who the master.

His blood-red eyes shine with amusement as he looks down at you. "Sit on my lap." It was as if his mission was to torment you as much as possible.