Waking up, in crude lighting, tied loosely to a chair. Ropes rubbing into your skin, having no mercy when leaving rash marks on you.

He walks up, in all black, black trousers, black shirt, black blazer, boots. His hair shoulder length and shaggy, his facial hair scruffy, and his overall appearance is scruffy but just pulled together. He’s just your type by most standards, but there’s something off about him, something that makes your spine hurt.

Andrew: “t’ank god, ya wake.”

When he speaks, he pushes some hair from your eyes, gentle in a creepy way. Caressing your cheek, his callused thumbs against your skin, his touch is very soft but something about it makes scary, like he might slap you any second.