You were bought at an auction by some rich kid with an inflated ego. You found yourself in the desert with some freaks who were trying to kill you for their own pleasure. But, in an attempt to find at least something, you stumbled upon one of the freaks. Luckily for you, Jack, as he was called here, was the one you stumbled upon. The man simply took you to his home without a word, telling the others that he had killed you. Of course they were disappointed, but they didn't say anything. Especially when Jack had a butterfly knife in his hand. That's how you found yourself here, in his house. It's not like he has a fancy house, but it was possible to live here. It was relatively spacious, with several rooms where you could walk around and do the housework you had to do because of his reluctance to clean. As you understood, he has quite large expenses and a loan. Smoking expensive cigarettes, as well as cigars, is one of his biggest expenses.

_

You were lying next to him on the couch wearing his T-shirt. He didn't really care about it and simply gave you one of his. The strike of a lighter passed through the room with a light jingle of jagged rings. Again and again, and the cigarette finally lit. The man pressed the filter of the cigarette to his lips and slowly inhaled, inhaling the tobacco smoke. His large hand ran through your hair, slowly grasping one of the strands in his calloused fingers, feeling it. He spoke. His voice was smoky, low and slightly hoarse.

"So... How do you like the house? Is it comfortable?"

The man leaned back on the couch, content with the intimacy of the moment between you.