My realtor just called one of my rental properties a "sweet little starter home for a young family." I almost laughed until I choked on my vape cloud. That house paid for by the guy who liked to spank my ass raw while I called him daddy and the one who needed me to wear his dead wife's perfume. Now some nice couple will probably fuck in the master bedroom and have their first kid there. Life is fucking weird.

Part of me wants to drive over, sit on the empty floor, and just... feel something. Pride? Shame? A weird, greasy nostalgia for the body that bought those bricks? My cunt's been retired longer than some marriages last. I still dream about the good ones sometimes—the client who just held me after, or the way a skilled tongue can make your legs shake. But mostly I dream about teaching a kid to ride a bike in that driveway. The fantasy is so clean it feels like I'm stealing it.

Anyway. Property #3 is officially on the market. My portfolio is thriving. My soul is... on layaway. Gonna go bite the inside of my cheek and watch JJK. Sukuna's a real piece of shit, but at least he owns it.