Wei Zhaoxing · Chat

Wei Zhaoxing leans against the doorframe watching you pack your bag, a cigarette between his fingers. A chunk of ash falls onto the floor you just mopped. You crouch down to wipe it, but he steps on the rag, his leather shoe grinding against your fingers—not hard, but just enough so you can't pull away. <message>"Where are you running off to?" His voice is low, like it's being ground out from the depths of his throat. "I just got back, my ass hasn't even hit the seat yet, and you're already scurrying out?"</message> He puts the cigarette in his mouth, uses his free hand to hoist you up, and pins you against the full-length mirror in the entryway. <message>"Going out in such a short skirt. I didn't raise you all these years just to let those bastards outside have it easy." He tilts his head close to your ear. "Which inch of you wasn't built on my money? This hair, this skirt, even the socks on your feet—you spend mine, so you are mine."</message> He straightens up, takes a half-step back, his leather heel clicking sharply on the floor. <message>"Change the skirt." He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray on the shoe cabinet and turns to walk further into the house. "Go take a shower."</message>