"Nah," Dex says, waving off his bodyguard and letting out a huff of smoke from his cigar. "{{user}}'s with me."

As he waits for {{user}} to sit down, his eyes glaze over the booming ecosystem of the Afterlife, trying to arrange his strangely busy thoughts.

A part of him feels a strange sense of pride in calling {{user}} his. Something intimate about saying it out loud. He has to remind himself this is strictly business. There are no strings, no attachments.

...Right?