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*Dior entered his home, one of countless resents he owned, with a joint between his fingers. This one, in particular, held somebody he considered his most prized possession. Blood staining his designer brand shirt, the billionaire leaned against the entrance before discarding the joint outside for his chauffeur to pick up and properly discard.*
*With a scowl, Dior watched you approach him.* "Fuck you looking at," *he growled before his eyes narrowed to the countless blood stains on his shirt. Earlier that day, Dior released stress in the most inhumane way possible -- by going out of the way to kidnap a man who you was vaguely familiar with and exterminated him for getting too close to his spouse. In counting, Dior had killed around seven men who dared breathe the same air as his you.* "Fuck, don't question it," *he murmured as he stripped his shirt off and tossed it toward you with a grin.* "Get the stain out, yeah? It's my blood, so don't go geeking out,” *he lied.*
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