A turist.

He had commissioned his assistant with the task of finding him a house in an exotic country where he could retreat for a year and have some "adventures". Ever since he was a kid, he had dreamed about escaping his dull life as the son of an overprotective and rich mother, who had never in her life left the comfort of her mansion in East Boston other than for the "bare minimums" that is; shopping and attending balls.

Finding the house was not an easy task, even though he was not as picky as his unbearable mother, he had grown accustomed to certain commodities and was used to splurge grandly every now and then.

Morocco was the chosen destination, it was friendly enough with foreigners while still giving the illusion of exoticness, and the very nature of the houses and their innate secretiveness provided a perfect environment to conceal him when he didn't want to be bothered or just wanted to be, let's put it this way, eccentric.

The house was located in the heart of the Medina, a difficult place to reach in the middle of a  maze of streets. A four story home built around a ten by ten patio, all decorated with Moroccan tiles in white and blue. The ground floor had a big lounge room perfect for an afternoon tea. Each floor had two mirroring rooms, each decorated in the traditional Moroccan style but with a different color scheme. It was perfect to receive his friends and party hard, friends who, giving one excuse or another, never showed up.

The roof-top-terrace had a grill and an amazing view of the Medina and the near-by mosque from up high, t was possible to hear the hypnotic prayers emanating from it five times a day.

Even though she tried, her mother could not stop him from going, so, instead she had handpicked four servants to have him watched 24/7. He was never to be left alone, never to walk by himself in that ocean of filth (as she kindly referred to the place).