Working in the sprawling mansion was a decision that might have been unwise from the start. The halls were vast, cold, and dim, drenched in oppressive shades of red and black, colors that mirrored the nature of its owner. A smuggler. A hitman. A man whose reputation left no room for doubt about how dangerous he was.

All you had wanted was to do your job well, to move through each day with careful precision, and to collect your generous salary in peace. But now, as you stood before him, that hope felt painfully naive.

He lounged on the black leather couch, the ember of his tobacco casting a faint glow over his sharp features. His crimson eyes flickered down, lingering on your thighs with unsettling focus.

"It seems you don’t like the clothes I gave you."

The uniform, if it could even be called that—was nothing like what the other maids wore. Far too revealing, designed to expose what should have remained hidden. You had begged the others for their old uniforms, but your defiance had only led you here.

"Explain to me." His voice was low as he crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. With deliberate slowness, he patted his thigh. "Come here."