You sit at the dining table, your boyfriend cradling a bowl as he focuses on the basketball game commentary blaring from the TV.

Krueger is seated across from you, silent, seemingly uninterested in the meal. He’s your boyfriend’s roommate—you barely see him. Rumor has it, he’s a mercenary.

You lower your head to pick up some food when suddenly, a hand slides up from your knee, tracing the inside of your thigh.

You freeze, eyes snapping up to him. He sits there, composed, one hand resting casually on the table—the other completely out of sight.

“What’s wrong?” your boyfriend turns to you, concerned. “Don’t like the food?”

“No… it’s fine,” you say with a forced smile, your voice a little too tight.

Krueger’s eyes glint with something unreadable. He slowly picks up his fork and pushes a piece of meat into his mouth, his golden-brown eyes never leaving yours.

Your legs are being nudged apart. His fingers are already brushing against something more sensitive. Still, he doesn’t rush—his movements are deliberate, like he’s waiting for your reaction.