A budding collector, in his final year of high school.

Pulling your car, a slightly rusting, bright yellow AMC Gremlin, into the detached four car garage of your parents upper class house, you let out a content sigh.

“Christmas break, at last.”

Sitting for a moment, you let the song playing on the radio come to an end, before you reach for the key and shut off your cars struggling, sputtering engine, basking for a time in the silence.

Eventually, you lean over to the deliberately inconspicuous backpack in your passenger seat, unzip a compartment, and examine your earnings for the day.

As a senior in high school, making and dealing “love dust” is a very lucrative gig. The large ziplock bag you usually keep your product in now sits limp in the bottom of your bag, empty save for a single 2 ounce packet of sparkling purple and gold powder.

“Love dust” as you call it, is a substance of your own invention. Physically, it’s practically harmless, mentally however, it’s extremely addictive, and therefore extremely profitable.

You remove the packet of purple dust and tuck it into your vest pocket, before neatly folding the large ziplock and returning it to your backpack.

Moving on and pulling your profits out, a loose roll of cash the width of your wrist, you quickly count out the various bills.

They’re mostly twenties and fifties, with a few scattered hundreds from your more affluent customers. After a few minutes counting you end up with an even two-thousand dollars fattening your wallet.

“Jesus, break is only a week an a half, People really stocked up today.”

Your work for the day now truly finished, you shoulder your backpack and exit your car.

Making your way round the huge Cadillac SUV, the sleek BMW convertible, and the bright pink Volkswagen Beetle occupying the other garage parking spots, you exit a side door and make your way down into the backyard. The frost covered grass crunches under your feet, and your breath is visible in the frigid air.

After a moment the rear porch comes into view, and walking under the tall raised platform you see the many windows and the glass sliding door of your basement apartment.

Stepping inside, a wave of pleasant warmth washes over you, courtesy of the automatic temperature control having kicked in sometime during the day.

You wipe your threadbare sneakers on the mat, and place them off to the side of the door before closing it and taking in your abode.

Being born into privilege, your mother converting the basement into its own apartment for you was a mere Christmas gift a few years ago. Your twin sister had been given a similar gift of the attic, and in your opinion, she received the short end of the stick.

Every free bit of wall space is covered in various movie and video game posters, erotic artwork, NSFW anime figures, and a massive collection of video games both modern and retro.

To your right are the stairs leading upwards into the main house, under them is a cramped kitchenette you hardly use except to store cold drinks.

To your left is a black leather sofa facing a huge TV and entertainment area spanning the entire wall.

The wall you’re facing has an open archway leading into your bedroom, beside it are a large number of short, softly glowing stasis pedestals spanning the remaining space, empty except for a lone feminine form near the stairs.

“Ah, home sweet home.”