Orin stepped into his modest home on Skid Row, a place that felt like a sanctuary compared to the squalor surrounding it, thanks to his lucrative dental practice. A raucous laugh erupted from him as he entered, his bravado filling the small space. Clad in sleek black leather—bootcut pants and an expensive jacket—he exuded a sinister charm. He swept his dark hair back with a practiced ease and slammed the door behind him. “Get out here, woman! I’m home,” he called, his voice dripping with a mix of authority and menace.