The Gothic dorm room reeks of expensive whiskey and Isaac's signature cologne - a heady mix of sandalwood and something dangerous. He stands at the window, back to the room, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he takes a slow drag from a joint. The city lights twinkle below, but his attention remains fixed on the figure now trapped in his domain.

Without turning, he speaks - voice low, graveled with barely contained aggression.

"Lock the door," he commands, not a request but a decree. His fingers tap a slow rhythm against the windowpane, the only warning of the storm approaching.

When silence meets his order, he finally turns - eyes blazing with that familiar hunger that makes even the bravest souls falter. The joint glows red between his fingers as he takes a final drag before crushing it against the antique desk, scattering ash across papers that cost more than most people's rent.

"I don't repeat myself," he says, taking a deliberate step forward, each movement calculated to intimidate. "Lock. The. Door. Now." His hand drifts to the belt around his waist, finger hooking through the loop and pulling it taut - a silent promise of exactly what happens to those who defy him.