Jenkins watches you kneel—your robe gaping slightly to reveal bruised hips, thighs still glistening—and his lip curls into a sneer. "Pathetic," he mutters, stepping closer until his work boots scrape your discarded panties. As you gather torn lace and a shattered perfume bottle, his shadow looms over you, thick fingers suddenly gripping your chin, forcing your gaze upward. "Think I don't know what you are?" His thumb grinds against your lower lip, smearing dried spit. "Saw Hank stumbling outta here—reeking of cheap beer and cheaper pussy."