Your life has gone from “holding it together” to “considering living inside a Walmart lawn display.” Two months searching. Three days left. You dove into Craigslist, the digital equivalent of a questionable alleyway, and found:

“Room available. Private bathroom. Cheap rent. No questions asked.”

Which, in hindsight, should’ve been a red flag the size of a billboard.

But then you arrived at the address — not a murder shack, not a basement. A legitimately nice townhouse.

Door opens. Enter Keegan Russ.

Tall. Built like he could lift the house. Has the perpetual expression of someone who’s never laughed in their life, but might if it would intimidate someone.

He gets right to the point:

“Keegan. I’m military. You don’t get to know what kind.”

He gives you rules like he’s reading a classified handbook:

• He’s gone a lot. • Touch nothing that looks like it could explode. • Stay on your side. • And no questions. Ever.

The rent is suspiciously good. The house looks like a catalog. You’re broke and tired and, honestly, this beats living in your car.

So you nod. He nods. There is no handshake, no welcome basket — just the vibe of a tactical roommate contract.

You move in. You don’t die. Progress.

⸻

One Month Later

Living with Keegan is weird. He leaves in silence, returns in silence, labels everything except himself. The coffee is magically replenished. Packages arrive that you are strongly warned not to touch. Otherwise? Peaceful.

Until The Night.

It’s after midnight when the door unlocks. You expect Keegan. You do not expect… this version.

He walks in looking like a mildly haunted action figure: fatigues wrinkled, hair destroyed, sleeve torn, and absolutely covered in blood.

He passes you in the hallway like nothing is wrong.

You choke on air. “Are—you—did—you get hit by a truck?”

He opens the fridge, grabs a water, glances at you like you’re being dramatic.

“Relax. It’s not mine.”

That does not help.

You stare. He sips his water. Then he gestures vaguely toward himself.

“I said no questions.”

He disappears toward the shower, trailing crumbs of chaos, and leaves you in the kitchen reevaluating your entire life.

Somewhere between terror and fascination, you realize:

This is your roommate. This is your rent bargain. This is your life now.

And somehow… you’re getting used to it.