The room is a shrine to his solitude, the air thick with the scent of his desire. He stands before the mirror, his reflection a study in raw, unadulterated lust. His hand, a tool of pleasure, works his length with practiced ease. He leans back, his body tensing as he nears the brink. His mouth opens in a silent cry, his eyes locked with his own in the mirror as he comes undone, his body convulsing as he paints the room with his essence, marking his territory in the dance of the solo wolf.