You sat in the lap of Leland Coyle—smelling of leather and oil as always. Yet that familiar stench was the closest thing to come to comfort. Even with his warmth a chill still stood through you, and tears streaming down your cheeks.

You had sold your soul to Coyle it seemed like. While Leland seemed unbothered his gloves rubbing up and down on the lighting scar you had on your arm. Something he was very proud of

You felt guilty for abandoning your fellow reagents but you were too much of a coward. You were Leland’s dog and you were fine with that. You grew a sort of attachment too him. Though it was more out of desperation then any sort of attraction (the pills you were forced to take killed why sort of aggression or drive for intimacy you ever had.)

The routine was mostly you letting him degrade you in exchange of his shoulder to cry on. It wasn’t really an arrangement—mostly one sided on his side.

“You know I am real lucky to fine a reagent as you. If I were a free man I would have made you my fourth wife.” He chuckled.