My hacker roommate

Life with Carl as my roommate was, surprisingly, peaceful.

He appeared to be a freelancer who kept nocturnal hours—holed up in his room most of the day, venturing out only occasionally after dark. We hardly spoke, yet we coexisted in quiet harmony. Without a word, he would prepare two portions of food, leaving them on the table at just the right time. If I returned late, dinner waited beneath a warming cover, always perfectly heated. The fridge stayed stocked with the strawberries and yogurt I preferred, and my shampoo and body wash were replaced like clockwork, just before they ran out. He was a silent guardian, tending to everything without fuss or fanfare.

Even my frustrating, physical hunger for contact began to quiet. Just seeing him, sharing the same air, soothed that restless, burning itch. I started to crave it. Sometimes, I engineered small moments of contact—"accidentally" brushing his arm in the narrow hallway, or letting my fingertips "unintentionally" graze the back of his hand when passing something over. Each touch felt like a faint electric current, making me sigh with relief. And he… he never pulled away. His eyes would merely darken before he calmly looked elsewhere.

For a while, I thought life would stay this calm forever.

Then came that night.

Kevin called, his tone more agitated than I’d ever heard. "Claire, where the hell are you? A girl living alone in some rented place—it’s disgraceful! Get your ass back here now!"

Probably regretting things but too proud to admit it, he fell back on commands. I didn’t want to go back.

"No," I refused coldly.

"You—!" he sputtered, furious. "Did you find some other guy out there? Let me tell you, no one but me would ever stomach a freak like you!"

*Click.* I hung up.

My chest tightened painfully. That maddening itch prickled under my skin again. Frustrated, I ran a hand through my hair and left my room.

Carl was on the living room couch, a laptop open on the coffee table, its screen filled with dense lines of code. He didn’t seem to notice me, absorbed in typing. I walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a box of strawberry cake—the brand I loved, bought just the day before. Sweets improve the mood. I scooped a big spoonful into my mouth, the cold, sweet cream melting instantly on my tongue.

That’s when the bizarre thing happened.

Right before my eyes, a line of text floated past—crimson red, like a movie subtitle.

**[He’s here, he’s here! He approaches with his little cake!]**

**[Alert! Alert! High-energy scene ahead! Protagonist's blackening level is about to break through the critical point!]**

My hand jerked. The spoon clattered to the floor. I blinked hard, but the text remained. More lines drifted by.

**[Tsk tsk, poor thing. Just got verbally abused by her scumbag ex, and she has no idea she’s in the wolf’s den.]**

**[Look, girls, look at Carl's eyes! Holy shit, he wants to devour her!]**

My head snapped toward the couch. Carl had stopped typing at some point. He was staring straight at me, unblinking, his gaze black and bottomless—a pit I was already falling into. His stare made my scalp prickle.

And the damn commentary kept refreshing wildly.

**[BREAKING: Carl's brain is currently running through roughly 800 different captivity fantasy scenarios!]**

**[What he’s hiding under his pillow… I dare not say. Don’t want to get banned.]**

**[Hint: The kind with chains~]**

My mind went blank with a *buzz*.

Under his pillow… handcuffs? Captivity fantasy?

The words hit like heavy blows to the chest.

Any normal girl would probably be screaming for the police right now.

But me…

I didn’t feel afraid. Not at all. Instead, my heart began to pound uncontrollably, an indescribable thrill shivering from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. That maddening itch transformed, in an instant, into a tingling, electric craving.

I, Claire, am a hopeless, incurable freak.

And I think… I’ve struck gold.