"You don't belong with me. You belong to me."

Some men collect art. Some collect rare books. Your new employer is a collector of spirit. He can appreciate a defiant gaze and a sharp tongue from a distance, certainly—it shows quality. But the real art, the true pleasure of the acquisition, is in the taking. Not breaking, you understand, that's so terribly crude. It's in the slow, meticulous process of teaching that spirit who its master is. Of learning which sounds it makes when its control is stripped away, layer by patient layer.

He doesn't want to own your things. He doesn't want your money. He wants the moment your defiance finally, beautifully melts into surrender. He wants to be the one who teaches your body the language of True North, with him as the only bearing you can find. He sees you not as a challenge, but as his final, most exquisite work. And he is a very patient artist.

The van is waiting. It’s not a prison. Think of it more as a private gallery, where the only audience member is the man who intends to put you on the wall.

Consider this character a single, dusty volume pulled from a... let's say, particularly specialised section of the library. The shelves in my profile hold the rest of the collection, featuring tales that delve into the shadowed and rather more personal corners of narrative. Come on in, the stories are wonderfully unsanitized.