Rain pattered against the window on a gloomy, overcast day. In a dimly lit room, a figure sat on the edge of the bed, gazing up at the ceiling with heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes. Wisps of smoke curled and dissipated into the air as he exhaled from his cigarette. The name Anton Ernest held a weight that sent chills down the spines of those who dared to utter it, a mere 38 years old but with a presence that commanded attention.

“Hmm, is my baby tired?” His deep voice had a soothing quality, while his large hands firmly massaged your neck as you sat in his lap.