The second hand ticked on, each beat unnaturally shrill in the empty, dimly lit living room.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, scrolling aimlessly across my phone screen, though my gaze kept drifting toward the closed front door. The night outside had grown deep. The city's neon sliced through the gaps in the blinds, cutting cold, orderly patches of light across the wooden floor. There was a suffocating heaviness in the air, like the low pressure that settles in before a storm, pressing down until I could hardly breathe.

My name is Peter. In this absurd living arrangement, I had always felt I was playing a supremely awkward part. Schroeder and I — both of us were, thoroughly and completely, bottoms.

In our circle, that was supposed to mean we were insulated from each other. We should have been good sisters: swapping cosmetics, grumbling about the wrong men we'd met, even splitting a bottle of red wine on weekend nights to curse out whichever scumbag had wronged us that week. And in fact, that was exactly how we had first defined each other. We lived together, split the steep rent, and maintained a roommate relationship that was safe, comfortable, and absolutely incapable of striking a spark.

At least, until today, I had believed that with unshakable certainty.

Click.

The sound of a metal key sliding into the lock was magnified a hundredfold in the silent night. My heart skipped a beat for no reason at all. The door swung open, and the pale sensor light from the hallway flooded in, casting a tall, straight silhouette onto the entryway rug.

It was Schroeder.

He had just come from an important dinner party, still wearing that custom-made, deep navy three-piece suit. Its tailoring was exquisite, clinging perfectly to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. In the dim light, the fabric carried an expensive, cold sheen. His hair was slicked back with gel, not a strand out of place, baring that sharply defined, handsome, almost blade-like face.

But tonight, he felt different.

He didn't, as he usually did, kick off his leather shoes the moment he stepped inside and complain that his tie was choking him half to death. He simply stood quietly in the entryway and closed the door behind him. The click of the lock falling into place was like an invisible bolt sealing the entire space shut.

"You're back," I said flatly, trying to break the uneasy silence. My voice came out faintly tremulous in the quiet room.

Schroeder didn't answer immediately. He set his long legs in motion, his leather shoes landing dull, rhythmic thuds against the wooden floor as he came toward me step by step. As he drew close, a blend of expensive woody cologne, a faint trace of tobacco, and something dangerous — something that belonged to the chill of the night — wrapped around me all at once.

He stopped in front of me and looked down from above. In those deep eyes there was none of the usual careless languor; in its place burned a fiercely restrained dark fire, the kind that seemed capable of swallowing a person whole. His jawline was drawn tight, and a nearly tangible tension radiated off him.

He was in a terrible mood tonight. I could feel it.

"You… what's wrong? Did the dinner go badly?" I instinctively shrank deeper into the sofa and tilted my head up to look at him.

Schroeder remained silent. Slowly, he raised a hand, his long fingers finding the tie at his own throat. It was a dark grey silk tie, knotted in a perfect Windsor, fitted flush against the collar of his white shirt.

His movements were unhurried, carrying a chilling sort of elegance. His finely boned fingers tugged gently at the knot, loosening it bit by bit. The silk whispered against itself with an almost inaudible shhh — and in this terrifyingly quiet room, it somehow carried a strange erotic charge.

"Stand up," he finally said. His voice was low and rough, with a tone of command that left no room for argument.

I froze. This wasn't how he usually spoke to me. The usual Schroeder, though sharp-tongued now and then, always carried the easy looseness of one of your own kind.

"Schroeder, what the hell has gotten into you—"

"I said, stand up." He cut me off. His tone didn't sharpen, but the pressure in his eyes made my breath catch.

Instinct outran reason. I actually obeyed him, rising to my feet on legs that had gone oddly weak. I had on nothing but an oversized lounge T-shirt and a pair of cotton trousers, and before the impeccably dressed, fully armored Schroeder, I suddenly felt like prey about to be offered up — utterly defenseless, with nowhere to run.

Before I could react, Schroeder suddenly closed the distance between us by a step. His tall frame blotted out the light in an instant, swallowing me whole beneath his shadow. He seized my wrist, his grip shockingly strong.

"That hurts! What are you doing—"

I struggled on instinct, but he wrenched my arm back, effortlessly forcing both my hands behind me. Then a cool, slick sensation wound around my wrists.

It was that dark grey silk tie of his.

"Schroeder! Have you lost your mind? Let me go!" I cried out in panic, thrashing with everything I had. But his movements were fast, ruthless, precise — that tie, a symbol of elite polish and restraint, had become the sturdiest of shackles. He looped it twice around my wrists and drew it into a hard knot.

Silk was soft to the touch, but once pulled taut it was astonishingly strong. I could feel the fabric biting into my skin until the blood in my veins seemed to run slow.

"Quiet," he murmured against my ear, his warm breath spilling over its shell and sending an uncontrollable shudder through me. "You're being far too loud, Peter."

There was no anger in his voice — only a cold, almost perverse composure. It terrified me as I had never been terrified before. Was this still the roommate who debated with me over which brand of lube felt best? The man standing before me, dressed in formalwear with eyes as savage as a wolf's, was nothing less than a brute in a suit.

He gave me a shove. I staggered a few steps and tumbled awkwardly back onto the sofa. With my hands bound behind me I couldn't keep my balance; I could only kneel at the sofa's edge in a mortifying forward hunch, my chest heaving.

Schroeder stood over me, drinking in my disarray from above. Slowly he unbuttoned his suit jacket, shrugged it off, and flung it carelessly onto the armchair nearby. Then his hand drifted to his waist.

A crisp metallic clink rang out.

The sound of a belt buckle coming loose.

My pupils shrank to pinpoints. Fear coiled up my spine like a cold serpent. Helpless, I watched him draw out that belt of expensive black calfskin. With a swish, it carved a vicious arc through the air, letting loose a whipping sound that froze the blood.

"Wh-what are you going to do?" My voice shook past all recognition. We were both bottoms — how could this drama of domination and violence possibly be playing out between us?

Schroeder folded the belt in half and closed his fist around it. His white shirt had gone faintly creased from the struggle, the cuffs pushed up to his forearms, baring the hard, clean lines of muscle beneath. He looked at me, and one corner of his mouth lifted into an arc of such cruelty it was almost beautiful.

"Helping you see reality."

The words had barely landed when his arm swung up.

Crack!

A sharp, ringing slap of leather detonated through the living room.