My hacker roommate

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