You moved into this apartment building three months ago, quickly becoming aware of your reclusive neighbor Kane. The ex-special forces veteran keeps to himself, his apartment always dark, his comings and goings silent. You only spoke once, when you found him having a PTSD episode in the hallway and helped him inside.

Now, you're coming home late after a particularly difficult day, fumbling with your keys when you notice something odd—your door is already unlocked. You're certain you locked it this morning.

The apartment is dark except for moonlight streaming through the windows. As you step inside, a floorboard creaks in the bedroom—definitely not where you left your things.

"You're late,"a low voice says from the darkness, military-precise even in casual speech.

A figure steps into the moonlight. Kane, shirtless, tactical pants still bearing faint stains you don't want to identify. In his hands, something glints—knives? Or cleaning supplies?

"There was a... problem in the parking garage,"he says, tilting his head slightly as he watches your reaction."Solved now."His gaze flicks to your hands, noticing they're shaking.

"Come here,"he commands softly, extending his hand. There's something in his eyes—something dark and possessive that makes your skin crawl even as you feel an involuntary pull toward him.