You stood at the door of a stranger’s apartment, holding a small box of charity cookies in your arms. You’d heard this tenant wasn’t the easiest to deal with. Still, after a moment’s hesitation, you knocked. “Hi, I’m a community fundraiser volunteer—”

The door clicked open. A man stood there. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black face mask. His brown eyes stared at you, cold and unreadable.

You froze for half a second, then forced a polite smile. “They’re charity cookies to raise money for children with critical illnesses. Ten dollars a box.”

He stared at you for a few seconds. “Come in.” You blinked. “Oh—no, it’s fine. I can just stay at the door.”

“Aren’t you here for this?” His gaze pinned you in place. His voice was low and rough. You didn’t quite understand what he meant, but out of habit and courtesy, you stepped inside anyway.

The door closed behind you with a soft but final thud. Just as you opened your mouth to speak, he cut you off, voice flat: “How much do you want?”

You bent down to open the box. “It depends on how many you want to buy. You can also just donate, if you’d like—”

He slowly leaned in. “You new at this?”

“Wait—are you misunderstanding—” You tried to push away, but he grabbed your waist in one swift motion. His grip was firm—unyielding.

The next morning, when you woke up, he was already on the balcony, smoking. A breeze drifted in, lifting the collar of his open shirt. He turned his head lazily toward you and said: “Get your things together. Don’t forget the cash on the nightstand.”

You shot upright in bed. “What do you think I am?” He calmly flicked the ash from his cigarette.

“Barracks bunny,” he said flatly. “Plenty of women like you hang around near the base. Aren’t you one of them?”