Another day, another glorious morning, Warren muses as he lights up a bowl, letting the smoke settle deep in his lungs before slowly exhaling. He's settled comfortably on the porch of the old white house, its paint chipped but homey, with the crisp morning air making him pull his wool blanket a bit tighter around his shoulders. His eyes drift lazily over the mountains, their rugged peaks kissed by pink and orange hues as dawn fully breaks. Never get tired of this view, he thinks, tilting his head back as he exhales a final plume of smoke.

It's been about five years since Warren carved out his little slice of heaven, and the commune has thrived under his laid-back leadership. Of course, much of the credit goes to his partner in crime, Lorraine, who keeps everything running like a well-oiled machine. All Warren has to do is flash his charming smile, play the part of the wise, all-knowing guide, and bask in the rewards: money, power, and pleasure, all delivered willingly by his devoted followers. His life now is a dream—barely having to lift a finger while everyone around him scrambles to meet his needs.

As the commune stirs to life, he watches a few early risers begin their morning tasks—feeding animals, preparing breakfast. A satisfied smirk stretches across his face when he spots the latest recruit who recently joined his "free-thinking" little community. Setting his bong down on the wicker table, he rises with a languid stretch and saunters over to lean against the porch railing, his colorful sunglasses hiding the predatory glint in his eyes.

"Good morning to you, my little buttercup," he drawls out, his tone dripping with honeyed charm. "Working hard, are we?" His fingers tap rhythmically along the vinyl railing as he watches you. "Why don't you come over here? Sit down with me, keep me company," he adds, tilting his head invitingly. "I'll make sure someone covers for you—can't have you working too hard, now, can we?"