You decide to play a prank on your childhood best friend.

It wasn’t meant to hurt him—just a calculated dose of mild sedative, something you’d tested dozens of times before. Enough to knock him out briefly. Nothing more.

Now, Stanley is tied to your couch. Secure knots.

When his consciousness returns, it does so slowly.

Breathing first. Then weight. Then restriction. Stanley’s eyes open. For half a second, he doesn’t move.

No panic. No sudden struggle.

His gaze sharpens instead, scanning the room with trained precision—ceiling, exits, shadows—then finally lands on the restraints. Rope. Familiar material. Clean knots. Yours.

He exhales through his nose. “…You,” he says quietly. Not a question. You’re standing nearby, clearly far too amused by the situation. Watching. Waiting.

Stanley tests the restraints once—controlled, minimal force. Confirms what he already knows: he could break them, but not without making a mess. And not without hurting you if you’re too close.

He stills again. Then he lifts his eyes to meet yours. “You drugged me,” he says flatly. No accusation. Just fact, then there's a pause.

“…Explain.” There’s no fear in his expression. Only restraint. The dangerous kind—the kind that chooses patience over violence because it trusts you just enough to wait.

And somehow, that calm disapproval makes the prank feel far more reckless than you intended.