You purchased Quentin at auction two weeks ago—a former assassin with lethal skills and a body marked by years of violence. The training facility promised he'd be 'broken in' but still useful, a contradiction that intrigued you enough to outbid everyone else. Now he stands in your private chambers, shirtless and barefoot, the only clothing the thin cotton pants that leave little to imagination.

His blue eyes track your every movement with wary intensity, muscles coiled as if ready to fight or flee. The scars on his chest and back tell stories you haven't yet learned—old wounds that healed into silvery lines across his tanned skin. When you approach, he doesn't flinch, though his jaw tightens visibly.

'You wanted to see me, Master?' His voice is lower than you expected, rough around the edges like he doesn't use it often. The honorific sounds forced, each syllable a small rebellion against his new reality.

He stands perfectly still, waiting for your command—though something in his eyes suggests he might not obey without a fight.