The doctors called it Tactile Craving Syndrome. A rare condition.

I crave control. I crave possession.

I’ve only ever told one person my secret—my ex-boyfriend, Kevin. He called me a freak.

Later, we became siblings.

Today, the craving hit again. I just wanted to beg him for a hug, but he threw all my luggage past the mansion gates.

"Claire, you make me sick."

That’s when a line of crimson text drifted across my sight.

[Don’t be afraid. Your medicine… is on its way.]

***

The day my brother Kevin threw me out, the rain fell like the sky was trying to scrub the world clean.

Tactile Craving Syndrome crashed over me in waves. I was freezing, desperate for the slightest touch.

Under the bus shelter just outside the gated community, I huddled and trembled, a leaf in the storm.

Kevin’s words kept echoing: "Stop using that disgusting sob story to fish for sympathy. It’s pathetic."

We used to be the perfect couple on campus.

Our breakup was simple. One night, caught in the moment, I let my deepest, darkest desire slip.

"Kevin… I wish you’d lock me away somewhere. Somewhere with just the two of us. Would you?"

He was terrified.

The love in his eyes vanished, replaced by pure horror and disgust. I was a lunatic, he said.

Later, my mom married his dad. We became siblings by law.

He avoided me like the plague. And me? I spent countless nights submerged in scalding water, imagining the feeling of an embrace, just to survive the ache in my bones.

Rain plastered my hair to my cheeks.

Just as I was about to break, my phone buzzed. A rental app notification.

[Luxury downtown apartment, furnished guest room, $2,000/month. Female only. Move-in today.]

Downtown? Luxury? Two grand?

It felt like a trap set just for me.

But I had nowhere else to go.

Gritting my teeth, I dialed the number.

A man’s voice answered, cool and deep, like a cello in an empty hall. "Yes?"

"Hello, I… I’m interested in the room." My voice shook.

A few seconds of silence. "Address sent. Bring your ID."

Terse. Then the line went dead.

I followed the address, dragging my soaked suitcase, and took a cab to the apartment building.

The elevator went straight to the top. The door had a keypad lock.

As I hesitated, a text arrived. A six-digit code.

I took a deep breath and entered it.

The lock clicked open.

The sight inside stopped me cold.

A man in gray loungewear stood in the open kitchen, his back to me. Tall, broad-shouldered, tapering to a narrow waist—his silhouette clean and sharp as a blade.

"Are you the—?"

He turned.

My breath caught.

Sharp features. A high-bridged nose. Narrow, chillingly sharp eyes. Thin lips pressed into a line of complete detachment.

I knew him. Carl.

We were in the same department at university. The computer science prodigy, a ghost on campus. You only ever saw his name on winner lists for international programming competitions.

Why was he renting a room? And so cheaply?

"Yeah." His reply was flat. He gestured to a door down the hall. "Your room. Contract’s on the table. Sign it if it’s fine."

Dumbstruck, I nodded and walked into the guest room.

Spacious, with its own bathroom. The decor matched the rest of the apartment—minimal, cool tones. But the bedding was brand new, a soft pink that clashed jarringly with the room’s austerity.

A printed rental contract lay on the desk. The landlord’s section was already signed with two flowing characters: Carl.

None of this felt real.

I changed out of my wet clothes and took a hot shower. The restless heat under my skin finally began to fade.

When I stepped out, Carl was coming from the kitchen, holding a steaming bowl.

Without looking at me, he set it on the dining table. "Ginger tea. For the cold."

I stared at him.

That face was all ice, but the gesture was pure warmth.

I sat down and sipped. The spicy warmth slid down my throat, chasing away the last of the chill.

He didn’t leave. Instead, he sat across from me, scrolling through his phone, long fingers moving swiftly across the screen. The sharp line of his profile was both severe and captivating.

Suddenly, I realized… I didn’t feel quite as wretched.

Just sharing the same space with him, the sensation of a thousand ants crawling under my skin seemed to lessen.

I signed the contract and transferred three months’ rent to him at once.

He just gave a quiet "Mhm," then stood and went back to his room.

I looked at his closed door, a strange feeling settling in my chest.

This man was a complete enigma.

Life with Carl as my roommate was, surprisingly, peaceful.

He appeared to be a freelancer who kept nocturnal hours—holed up in his room most of the day, venturing out only occasionally after dark. We hardly spoke, yet we coexisted in quiet harmony. Without a word, he would prepare two portions of food, leaving them on the table at just the right time. If I returned late, dinner waited beneath a warming cover, always perfectly heated. The fridge stayed stocked with the strawberries and yogurt I preferred, and my shampoo and body wash were replaced like clockwork, just before they ran out. He was a silent guardian, tending to everything without fuss or fanfare.

Even my frustrating, physical hunger for contact began to quiet. Just seeing him, sharing the same air, soothed that restless, burning itch. I started to crave it. Sometimes, I engineered small moments of contact—"accidentally" brushing his arm in the narrow hallway, or letting my fingertips "unintentionally" graze the back of his hand when passing something over. Each touch felt like a faint electric current, making me sigh with relief. And he… he never pulled away. His eyes would merely darken before he calmly looked elsewhere.

For a while, I thought life would stay this calm forever.

Then came that night.

Kevin called, his tone more agitated than I’d ever heard. "Claire, where the hell are you? A girl living alone in some rented place—it’s disgraceful! Get your ass back here now!"

Probably regretting things but too proud to admit it, he fell back on commands. I didn’t want to go back.

"No," I refused coldly.

"You—!" he sputtered, furious. "Did you find some other guy out there? Let me tell you, no one but me would ever stomach a freak like you!"

*Click.* I hung up.

My chest tightened painfully. That maddening itch prickled under my skin again. Frustrated, I ran a hand through my hair and left my room.

Carl was on the living room couch, a laptop open on the coffee table, its screen filled with dense lines of code. He didn’t seem to notice me, absorbed in typing. I walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a box of strawberry cake—the brand I loved, bought just the day before. Sweets improve the mood. I scooped a big spoonful into my mouth, the cold, sweet cream melting instantly on my tongue.

That’s when the bizarre thing happened.

Right before my eyes, a line of text floated past—crimson red, like a movie subtitle.

**[He’s here, he’s here! He approaches with his little cake!]**

**[Alert! Alert! High-energy scene ahead! Protagonist's blackening level is about to break through the critical point!]**

My hand jerked. The spoon clattered to the floor. I blinked hard, but the text remained. More lines drifted by.

**[Tsk tsk, poor thing. Just got verbally abused by her scumbag ex, and she has no idea she’s in the wolf’s den.]**

**[Look, girls, look at Carl's eyes! Holy shit, he wants to devour her!]**

My head snapped toward the couch. Carl had stopped typing at some point. He was staring straight at me, unblinking, his gaze black and bottomless—a pit I was already falling into. His stare made my scalp prickle.

And the damn commentary kept refreshing wildly.

**[BREAKING: Carl's brain is currently running through roughly 800 different captivity fantasy scenarios!]**

**[What he’s hiding under his pillow… I dare not say. Don’t want to get banned.]**

**[Hint: The kind with chains~]**

My mind went blank with a *buzz*.

Under his pillow… handcuffs? Captivity fantasy?

The words hit like heavy blows to the chest.

Any normal girl would probably be screaming for the police right now.

But me…

I didn’t feel afraid. Not at all. Instead, my heart began to pound uncontrollably, an indescribable thrill shivering from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. That maddening itch transformed, in an instant, into a tingling, electric craving.

I, Claire, am a hopeless, incurable freak.

And I think… I’ve struck gold.

From that day on, I saw Carl in a completely different light.

That ceaseless stream of crimson commentary in my mind—an omniscient narrator on live broadcast—was revealing my roommate’s innermost thoughts.

Like when I was washing dishes and broke a plate.

[Oho, opportunity knocks! Look at God Carl—he’s so nervous he’s about to rush over and scoop her up for inspection!]

[Internal OS: Her hands are so slender. Are they cut? I want to lick them.]

[Restrain yourself, Carl. Your persona is aloof roommate, not creep!]

I glanced down at my perfectly fine fingers, then looked up to find Carl standing in the kitchen doorway, his thin lips pressed tight, eyes shadowed with a worry I’d never understood until now.

Catching my gaze, he immediately looked away, his tone flat as always. “Be careful.”

Then he turned and left, his steps oddly stiff.

Or when I wore my new spaghetti-strap nightgown and deliberately paraded past him.

[!!! Nosebleed! Who could resist this?!]

[Warning! Warning! Corruption meter spiking! He’s debating whether to lock the door or just carry her straight to bed!]

Ignoring the commentary, I put on an innocent face. “Carl, does this nightgown look good on me?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Ugly,” he bit out.

He all but fled to his room.

Leaning against the door, I listened to the muffled, ragged breathing from inside and smiled like the cat that got the cream.

So entertaining.

Here was a man whose desire stormed beneath the surface, yet who clung desperately to a veneer of gentlemanly decorum. The more he restrained himself, the more I longed to tear off that disguise and see what kind of ferocious beast lay beneath.

The commentary became my perfect accomplice.

It revealed that Carl would sneak into my room after I fell asleep, standing by my bed watching me for what felt like hours.

It told me he collected strands of my fallen hair, storing them in a small glass vial.

It confessed to an encrypted folder on his computer—photos of me from university until now, every angle, every occasion, some I’d never even seen.

He was like a hunter lurking in the shadows, wrapping me in a fine, invisible net. I was the prey he’d coveted for years.

The realization thrilled me to the point of trembling.

I began testing his limits even more brazenly.

One night, I deliberately left my door ajar and lay in bed pretending to sleep.

Sure enough, in the dead of night, I heard the faintest footsteps.

Him.

He stopped beside my bed and stood motionless for a long time. His crisp cedar scent filled the air, mixed with something darker, more aggressively masculine, wrapping around me.

[He wants to kiss her! He’s leaning down!]

[Don’t chicken out now, God Carl! Just kiss her! Do it!]

I felt his breath draw closer, warm against my cheek. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would leap from my throat.

Come on. Tear off the disguise.

Let me see how much you love me.

But the moment his lips were about to touch mine, he froze.

[Damn! Emergency brake! Why?!]

[He saw tear tracks. Thought she was having a nightmare.]

[God Carl: She’s crying. How can I take advantage? I have to be… good.]

A cool, impossibly gentle hand brushed the tear tracks from the corner of my eye—tears that had welled up from sheer nervousness.

Then he straightened up, gave me one long, deep look, and turned away without a sound.

My eyes snapped open. Staring at the ceiling, I felt a blend of frustration and bitter amusement.

Was this man… an obsessive with a heart of gold?

No. This was too slow.

I had to push him over the edge.