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Flirting is a Claim—Kruger X Reader

WARNING/CAUTION: Drugging, implied intention of sexual assault, and human trafficking. Murder and Krueger being the smug little thing that he is.

It's a headcanon that I have that Krueger has a strange and vile hatred of human traffickers and people who sexually assault others. Like, he hates them, and he takes great pleasure in killing them while also seeing them as not even worth his time because they are the scum of the earth to him. He won't let them get away with anything, and he believes that he is in his right to remove them because they are a problem.

I also headcanon that he will flirt and play around with someone that he is interested in. He won't ever tell that person that that is his version of the "talking stage" of a realtionship, he just expects the other person to figure it out. He wouldn't flirt with someone who coudn't offer him something in return. He likes getting attention from people and he figures that other people would like getting attention from him too, so he gives his attention to the person that he is interested in. If the person that he likes flirts with other people, he sees it as not a betrayl, but something hurtful because that is his thing to do with that person and he feels like he is close to that person. So it pisses him off when people do that, though he won't ever explain to them why he's suddenly pissed off.

Y/n rapped her knuckles lightly against the open doorframe. Once. Twice. Then, without waiting for an answer she already knew was coming, she leaned in.

“Hey, Syd.”

The room smelled faintly of gun oil and laundry detergent—the universal scent of a soldier’s quarters. Syd sat at the narrow desk shoved against the far wall, shoulders squared, posture perfect even when off duty. Her laptop glowed in the dim light, the screen reflecting faintly in the window behind her. One AirPod sat tucked into her ear, the other abandoned on the desk beside a half-empty mug that had long since gone cold.

She was typing. Or at least, her fingers were moving like she was.

Y/n stepped fully inside, the door clicking softly behind her, and glanced at the screen as Syd finally paused and turned in her chair with a long, tired exhale.

“Hey, Y/n,” Syd said, pulling the AirPod out. Her eyes flicked over Y/n in a quick, practiced sweep—and then stopped. Her brows knit together. “Why are you dressed like… uh.” She gestured vaguely. “That.”

Y/n followed her gaze down to herself. Ripped jeans, torn enough to show more skin than regulation would ever even dare to allow. A loose tank top hung off one shoulder, the edge of her sports bra visible beneath it. Her hair—brushed, loose, deliberately soft—fell around her shoulders instead of being yanked back into a tight, no-nonsense bun like every other woman on base.

She smiled, slow and unapologetic.

“I’m going out.”

Syd turned back toward the desk, one eyebrow still raised. “You’re going out,” she repeated flatly, like she was testing the sentence for hidden explosives. “As in… off base?”

Y/n leaned a hip against the wall. “There’s a club Yegor was talking about the other day. In town.”

Syd glanced back at the laptop screen, lips pressing together. The document was technically open—but the only thing written on it was the alphabet, typed out again and again in neat, irritated rows. ABCDEFG… over and over. A tell.

Y/n snorted softly. “You’ve been staring at that thing for an hour, haven’t you?”

Syd sighed, closing the laptop with a sharp click. “Paperwork after a solo op should be illegal,” she muttered. “My brain is still in the field.”

“Exactly,” Y/n said. “Which is why you’re coming with me.”

Syd blinked. “I’m what?”

“You heard me.” Y/n pushed off the wall and pointed at the desk. “You need noise. Alcohol. Lights. Something louder than your own thoughts.”

Syd hesitated, the ever-present internal rulebook visibly flipping pages behind her eyes. “Are we… allowed to?”

Y/n grinned. “I already cleared it with Nikolai. Otherwise I wouldn’t be strutting around base dressed like a bad idea.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s smart,” Syd said, though she was already standing.

Y/n laughed. “One of the best rules to break is sneaking out to drink. Besides, Nikolai doesn’t even sneak. He drinks in his office sometimes.”

“Nikolai is our boss,” Syd said, moving toward her closet. “He makes the rules.”

“Which is why he doesn’t care if we bend them—as long as we don’t make messes he has to clean up.” Y/n smirked.

Syd pulled out a pair of shorts and a tank top, tossed them onto the bed, then shut the door fully, as it hadn’t done so when it closed behind Y/n. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing just a touch. “You hate clubs. You like bars. Quiet ones. So why now?”

Y/n didn’t answer right away.

She folded her arms, jaw tightening just a little. “Sebastian’s being an asshole.”

Syd froze for half a second before turning back. “Of course he is.” A beat. “What did Sebastian do this time?”

Syd started stripping without ceremony, tugging her shirt over her head. Y/n automatically looked away—not out of modesty, but out of habit. Privacy was a loose concept in their line of work, but courtesy still existed.

“We were bantering,” Y/n said. “Like always.”

“Bantering, flirting,” Syd corrected lightly. “You two are mean to each other for fun.”

“Exactly,” Y/n snapped, frustration bleeding through now. “He was flirting with me during that mission in Gabon. Hard. And I was flirting back. And now?” She threw her hands up. “Nothing. No banter. No snide comments. Not even the usual passive-aggressive bullshit.”

She crossed her arms and huffed. “It’s weird.”

Syd tugged her hair free from its bun, fingers working through the tight knots. “And you’re shocked because…?”

“I’m not shocked,” Y/n said. “I’m annoyed.”

Syd glanced at her through the mirror. “You know he does that on purpose sometimes. Pulls back to see how people react.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Y/n admitted. “Until today.”

Syd paused. “What happened today?”

Y/n grabbed the brush from the desk and stepped closer, gently running it through Syd’s hair. “I was joking with Nikolai. About a plane ride I had once. You know the story.”

Syd hummed. “Airport security. The American guy?”

“The one where I flirted with the guy patting me down,” Y/n confirmed. “Normally Seb laughs. Or makes it worse.”

“And this time?”

Y/n’s hand stilled. “He snapped. Flat-out said it wasn’t funny.”

Syd’s reflection frowned. “That’s… not like him.”

“No,” Y/n agreed quietly. “It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t dry. He sounded… serious.”

Syd’s lips pressed together as her mind churned. “That’s not about the joke.”

“No,” Y/n said. “It’s about something else. And I hate not knowing what.”

Syd turned to face her fully now. “So you’re going clubbing to poke the bear.”

Y/n’s smile was sharp. “If he’s trying to get a reaction out of me, I might as well return the favour and get one out of him.”

Syd studied her for a moment, then shook her head with a small, resigned laugh. “You know this is exactly what he wants, right?”

“Maybe,” Y/n said. “But I want to feel normal for a night.”

Syd grabbed her jacket. “Then let’s go drink somewhere loud before Krueger decides to glare holes through the walls.”

Y/n smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

Syd opened her door again, and the two of them stepped out into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind them, and Y/n waited while Syd locked it, the familiar metallic sound echoing softly down the corridor before they moved on.

The hall was quiet—not silent, but subdued. A few operators passed them, boots muffled against the worn floors, nodding in recognition but not stopping. Most people were either already out, holed up in their rooms, or asleep. “Clubbing hour” thinned the population on base in a predictable way: the ones who needed noise and distraction had already left, and the rest conserved energy like it was currency.

Private military companies were nothing like national militaries, even when they operated with the same level of force and discipline. Chimera especially didn’t pretend otherwise. Nikolai had never enforced mandatory wake-up calls or curfews. No lights-out. No mandatory morning formations unless there was training, security duty, or a mission briefing. Operators were expected to manage themselves—and most of them did.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t structure. It just meant it was internal.

Most people on base still clung to the schedules they’d come in with. Former soldiers woke up early out of habit. Others stayed up late, running drills alone or lifting in the gym at two in the morning. Those who’d just come back from a mission often disappeared for a day or two, doors shut, windows dark, bodies recovering from adrenaline, injuries, and the quiet that followed both.

Y/n liked that no one questioned it.

Chimera wasn’t just a PMC with rented barracks or temporary safehouses—it had a full, private military base. The bones of it were old, clearly once used by a national force before being quietly repurposed. Operators were encouraged to live on base, though no one was forced to. For Y/n, it was an easy choice.

She didn’t know what Nikolai had done—or who he’d paid—to secure a place like this, and she didn’t ask. Some things were better left untouched. Coming from Norway, where rules were layered thick and reinforced constantly, she found the base oddly comforting. Familiar. Clean lines, secure perimeters, predictable routines. It felt like home in a way she hadn’t expected.

She missed her country. She missed the forests, the cold that bit deep into your lungs, the language that felt automatic instead of chosen. She missed the military she’d grown up watching and eventually joined. But there were parts of Chimera she wasn’t sure she could ever give up now.

Like being allowed to drink—within reason. As long as you were sober when it mattered, no one cared. No breathalyzers. No random inspections. No treating grown adults like children who couldn’t manage their own limits.

She didn’t have to wake up at a specific hour unless she was scheduled. She didn’t have to justify skipping the gym for a day, or spending hours in the shooting range if she wanted. Fitness tests mattered. Performance mattered. Everything else was left up to the individual.

Back home, she’d been up at six every morning. Lights out by ten unless there was a damn good reason otherwise. No alcohol. No excuses. Late once, and it followed you. Late twice, and you paid for it.

Here, she slept when she needed to. No one dragged her out of bed by her feet in pajamas. No one banged on her door until she answered. Sleep was treated like a resource, not a weakness—and she was fairly certain Nikolai agreed, given that he was either in bed by nine or not sleeping at all.

Syd, walking beside her, followed a schedule closer to what she’d known in the American military. Early mornings. Constant training. Pushing herself until she had paperwork or something else that forced her to slow down. She called her family regularly—at least once a week. Y/n respected that. In their line of work, every goodbye carried weight. One day, a mission wouldn’t end with a call home.

Y/n had family too. They called her more than she called them. Her parents never stopped trying to convince her to come back—to rejoin the Norwegian Army, to use her experience, to climb ranks she’d already proven she could reach. Her brothers, both older and both still serving, pushed less. They didn’t care where she worked, as long as she stayed alive.

They were a military family. Five years minimum, everyone. Some stayed longer. Some didn’t. Y/n had done her five, finished her contract, and walked away clean.

She’d spent a year with KorTac after that. Liked the freedom. Liked the lack of flag-waving and politics. Another PMC followed, then another. And then Nikolai had asked her himself.

In person.

She’d said yes without hesitating.

Chimera suited her. The people. The balance between discipline and autonomy. Nikolai had been a soldier once—he worked alongside task forces from different countries—and it showed. He understood what operators needed to function long-term. He made sure they were fed, rested, paid, and not burning out under pointless restrictions.

As they walked toward the exit, Y/n glanced down the corridor one last time. The base hummed quietly around them, alive but restrained. She knew, without doubt, that she’d be here for the rest of her working life.

Some places let you survive.

Chimera let you breathe.

“You driving, or me?” Y/n asked as they finally reached the parking garage.

The garage sat beneath the main structures of the base, wide and concrete-heavy, lights humming softly overhead. Rows of vehicles were parked with deliberate spacing, every one of them clean, serviced, and ready to move at a moment’s notice. Nothing was left outside—not in this climate, not with the kind of enemies Chimera attracted. Weather ruined engines. People ruined everything else. Inside, at least, both risks were controlled.

“I’ll drive,” Syd said, already reaching behind herself.

She pulled her keys from her back pocket—somehow retrieving them without Y/n ever having seen her put them there—and pressed the unlock button as they walked. Somewhere to their left, a dark SUV blinked its lights once, then again, the soft honk echoing briefly through the garage before the locks disengaged with a dull, mechanical thud.

Y/n circled around to the passenger side but didn’t touch the handle until Syd was seated and the driver’s door was shut. She’d learned that lesson the hard way more times than she cared to admit. Some of the vehicles that people used were finicky—designed to prioritize the driver’s side first, locking everything again if you tried the wrong door out of sequence.

She slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool against her skin, and buckled in just as Syd started the engine. The low rumble filled the enclosed space, vibrating faintly through the floor as Syd eased the SUV out of its spot.

They drove toward the exit in comfortable silence. At the gate, one of the guards glanced up from his post, recognized them immediately, and raised the barrier without a word. The metal arm lifted smoothly, and Syd rolled them out into the night.

The air outside was colder, sharper. The base lights receded behind them as the road stretched out ahead—long, straight, and mostly empty. Forest pressed in on both sides, dark shapes blurring together as Syd accelerated. The tires hummed against the asphalt, a steady sound that settled into Y/n’s bones.

Syd drove the way she did everything else: controlled, deliberate, and with no wasted movement. Both hands on the wheel. Eyes scanning the road, mirrors checked at regular intervals. Even off-duty, she never fully shut it off.

Y/n leaned back in her seat, one knee angled toward the dashboard, fingers drumming lightly against her thigh. The radio stayed off. Neither of them reached for it. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was familiar.

“Still think this is a good idea?” Syd asked after a few minutes, eyes never leaving the road.

Y/n shrugged. “Depends what you mean by good.”

Syd huffed quietly. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

They passed a sign marking the turnoff toward town, the glow of distant streetlights faint on the horizon. Civilization always felt strange after time on base—too open while also being too closed and too exposed. Y/n felt the shift in herself as it approached, the way she always did. A loosening. A tension she didn’t realize she’d been holding until it started to ease.

She thought, briefly, of Sebastian.

Of the way his eyes tracked everything without seeming to. Of the silence he wielded like a blade. Of how he’d looked at her earlier—measured, unreadable, and serious in a way that didn’t fit their usual rhythm.

She exhaled through her nose and stared out the window instead.

Syd caught the movement from the corner of her eye. “You’re in your head.”

“Yeah,” Y/n admitted. “Trying to get out of it.”

“That’s what the club is for,” Syd said. “Noise. Distraction.”

Y/n smirked faintly. “Liquid confidence.”

“Temporary,” Syd replied. “But effective.”

The road narrowed as they got closer to town, buildings replacing trees, neon signs flickering to life as they passed. Music thudded faintly through the air from somewhere ahead—bass-heavy, distant but unmistakable.

Syd slowed as they approached the cluster of parked cars near the club district, scanning for a spot. “We don’t stay too late,” she said. “And we leave together.”

“Always,” Y/n said easily.

The SUV eased into a space, engine cutting off with a soft click. For a moment, neither of them moved. The night waited outside the windshield, loud and bright and alive.

Whatever Krueger thought—whatever game he was playing—could wait.

Tonight was theirs.

“So,” Syd said as they shut the doors and merged into the slow-moving line outside the club, “how exactly is showing up here supposed to piss Krueger off?”

The night was loud in a way the base never was. Music bled out through the walls in heavy, rhythmic pulses, vibrating through the pavement beneath their boots. Neon lights flickered above the entrance, casting everything in washed-out blues and reds. People laughed too loudly, talked too close, and leaned into each other with an ease that came from alcohol and anonymity.

Y/n shrugged, hands shoved into the back pockets of her jeans. “Simple. I find a good-looking guy, flirt with him, maybe let it go a bit further if I feel like it—and then let the rumours do what rumours do.”

Syd glanced at her sideways. “You’re really going to do that just to get a reaction out of him?”

“Seb wants to stop flirting with me, stop bantering, and stop being a pain in my ass and suddenly be very serious with me while flirting with other girls?” Y/n said lightly. “Fine. I’ll stop giving him exclusive access to my attention.”

Ahead of them, two large men stood on either side of the doors. Broad shoulders, black shirts, practiced expressions. They checked IDs, asked questions, and waved people through with quiet efficiency. It wasn’t aggressive—more… watchful.

Y/n actually appreciated that. A club that actually cared whether people got home alive was a rare thing. Though, this club probably just wanted their customers to come back and not sue them.

The line shuffled forward, inch by inch.

“Are you two actually a thing?” Syd asked, casual but observant. “I’ve heard people on base whispering about it.”

Y/n let out a short laugh. “No. We’re not.”

“But,” Syd pressed, stepping forward as the line moved again, “you flirt constantly.”

“Yeah,” Y/n said. “Because it’s fun.”

Syd tilted her head. “Most people flirt because they’re interested.”

“Most people also think flirting automatically means feelings,” Y/n replied. “Or they take it seriously. Or they can’t keep up. Seb can.”

“That doesn’t answer why you only do it with him.”

Y/n frowned, irritation flickering across her face before she smoothed it out. “Because he doesn’t make it weird. He doesn’t think it’s romantic. He doesn’t expect anything from it.”

Syd hummed softly, unconvinced. “And you know that how?”

“I just do,” Y/n said, though her tone wasn’t as confident as she wanted it to be. “He’s… different. He flirts like it’s a game. Like sparring.”

“And you’re sure you’re both playing the same game?”

Y/n opened her mouth to respond—but the line moved again, cutting the moment short.

Syd tapped her shoulder lightly. “IDs.”

Both women pulled their identification from their pockets as they reached the front. One of the bouncers glanced at Syd first.

“Evening,” he said.

“Evening,” Syd replied, handing over her ID with a polite nod.

Y/n passed hers to the other man. “Hey.”

The bouncers compared faces to photos, eyes sharp but not unfriendly. One handed the IDs back after a minute.

“Do you have a safe way home tonight?” he asked.

“I drove,” Syd said easily. “But we’ll call someone if we need to. We’re not doing anything stupid.”

“And we’ll sober up before we leave,” Y/n added. “Plenty of time.”

They didn’t mention Chimera. Didn’t mention the base. Just two women out for a night, like anyone else. The bouncers exchanged a glance, satisfied.

“Alright,” one said, stepping aside. “Have fun. Be safe.”

The doors swung open, music surging forward as they stepped inside.

As the bass hit her chest and the lights swallowed them whole, Y/n felt the last threads of base-life tension loosen.

“Alright,” Syd said as they stepped fully into the main floor of the club, slowing just enough to take it all in. “Where exactly are we sitting?”

The place was packed without being suffocating. Music rolled through the room in heavy waves, bass rattling glasses and vibrating through the soles of Y/n’s boots. Coloured lights swept over clusters of people—some dancing, some drinking, some leaning close enough that whatever they were saying was clearly not meant for anyone else to hear. Tables were scattered unevenly around the edges, different styles mashed together like the club had been furnished by theft rather than design.

“One where we can see everything,” Y/n said, eyes already moving, tracking exits, the bar, the dance floor, and the darker corners. “But where people can also see us.”

Syd huffed. “Of course.”

They stood still for a moment, letting the crowd flow around them as if they were rocks in a river. Y/n scanned quickly and efficiently, the way she always did—even here. Old habits didn’t shut off just because the lighting was better and the drinks were stronger.

“There,” Y/n said, pointing.

It was a corner table with one of those semi-circular, squishy benches that clubs and restaurants loved to use. Big enough for four people, positioned just far enough from the dance floor to avoid being jostled but close enough to keep a clear line of sight. Corner tables were prime real estate—comfortable, contained, and defensible.

And empty.

“Move,” Y/n added.

They slipped through the crowd without hesitation, sidestepping elbows and spilled drinks with practiced ease. The table was theirs within seconds. Both of them sat down quickly, phones placed flat on the tabletop like markers staking a claim.

“I’ll grab drinks,” Syd said, already turning her attention toward the bar. The staff moved fast—black uniforms, confident hands, bottles flashing under the lights. “What do you want?”

“Vodka,” Y/n said immediately. “Whatever doesn’t taste like regret. I need at least one drink in me before I start picking my target.”

Syd stared at her. Then laughed. “You’re unbelievable. Just sitting here like you’re shopping.”

“At least I’m honest about it,” Y/n shot back. “And I’m not harassing anyone. Half the people here came for the same reason. You go to bars to drink with friends. You come to clubs to get drunk and flirt with strangers.”

Syd shook her head, amused despite herself. “You’re just as bad as the creepy guys.”

“Difference is,” Y/n said lightly, leaning back against the bench, “I’ll take a hint.”

“Mm-hmm.” Syd smirked. “Two vodkas?”

“And two shots,” Y/n added. “Dealer’s choice.”

“You are nasty,” Syd said, already stepping away.

Y/n blinked. “You’re the one who gutted a guy because he swallowed a USB.”

Syd paused mid-step, glancing back. “Krueger shot him before we could extract it. Digging through guts was still better than digging through shit.”

Y/n grimaced. “Should’ve let Seb do it.”

“He would’ve enjoyed it,” Syd said flatly, making a face. “Which is exactly why he was on sniper duty.”

She turned toward the bar again, tossing over her shoulder, “Now hush. Sit still. And try not to start a war before I get back.”

Y/n smiled to herself and let her gaze drift back over the room.

Somewhere between the lights and the music, she could almost feel Krueger’s absence.

And that, annoyingly enough, made the night more interesting.

Y/n didn’t even get the chance to start scanning the room for a target.

A shadow fell across the table, and a glass was set down with a soft clink near her phone. She looked up just as a man smiled at her—easy, practiced, not aggressive.

“Hey,” he said, lifting his chin in a casual greeting. “This table taken?”

Y/n didn’t answer right away.

She assessed him the way she always did—automatically, instinctively. It wasn’t judgment so much as habit, a survival reflex sharpened by years of needing to know who was safe, who was useful, and who was neither. Clubs were no different from crowded streets or transit hubs. People blended. People lied. People tried.

He looked… normal. Jeans, clean and well-fitted. A university hoodie that suggested he’d come straight from somewhere comfortable rather than trying too hard to impress. His smile wasn’t forced, and there was a faint flush to his cheeks that spoke more of alcohol than nerves. His hair was short, styled with care but not obsession. No ring on his fingers. No obvious scars on his hands, face, or neck—nothing that jumped out as a warning.

He smelled clean, too. A light cologne, subtle enough that she had to lean in slightly to register it. That alone put him several points above half the men she’d encountered in places like this. Too many thought cologne was a substitute for hygiene. She’d seen worse on missions—sweat, smoke, blood—but that didn’t mean she wanted to sit next to it voluntarily.

She tilted her head, resting her chin lightly on her knuckles.

“No,” she said at last, voice smooth. “We have room.”

Relief flickered across his face—quick, then gone. He slid onto the bench across from her and sat.

“We?” he asked, glancing at the empty seat beside her.

Y/n reached out and slid Syd’s phone closer to her own without breaking eye contact, the movement casual but deliberate. Clubs were prime hunting grounds for pickpockets, and in her experience, the smartest thieves never looked the part. They looked like him—clean, friendly, forgettable.

“My friend’s grabbing drinks,” Y/n said. “You here with anyone?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “My brother and a few friends. They’re over by the pool tables, already making bad decisions.”

She clocked the gesture—nervous, but not panicked. Social nerves, not predator nerves.

“So you decided to abandon them and make new friends?” she teased.

He smiled wider. “Something like that.”

“I’m Kirsten,” she said, offering a hand.

She watched his fingers as he took it—callused just enough to suggest he worked with them sometimes, but not rough. His grip was firm without being possessive.

“Pierre,” he replied. “Nice to meet you, Kirsten,” he repeated, tasting the name. “You don’t hear that one often. And you’ve got an accent.”

She smiled, amused. “So do you.”

“Yeah?” He leaned back slightly, studying her. “You Swedish?”

She nearly laughed. “Norwegian.”

“Ah,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “Close enough?”

“Careful,” she replied lightly. “That’s how wars start. You, uh—yours doesn’t sound perfect though.”

He chuckled. “Because it isn’t.”

“England?” She guessed.

“Try again.”

“Hmm, American?”

“Spot on.” He grinned.

She pretended to look surprised. “Really?”

“Shockingly,” he said, playing along. “On holiday. First time out here.”

“And?” she prompted.

He took a sip of his drink, eyes drifting around the club. “It’s… a lot. In a good way. I’ve never heard so many languages in one room before.”

“When people drink, they default,” Y/n said. “It’s easier to think in your first language.”

“That explains why my brother’s girlfriend gets louder in Spanish,” he said.

She hummed, glancing past him toward the bar. Syd was leaning casually against the counter, chatting with the bartender while their drinks were being poured. Comfortable. Alert.

“So,” Y/n said, turning back to Pierre, “I’ve got to ask. Pierre?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“American parents feeling adventurous?”

“My mom lived in Quebec during university,” he explained. “Fell in love with the culture. Decided to pass that on.”

“That’s actually kind of nice,” Y/n said honestly. “Any story behind mine is boring by comparison.”

“Now I have to hear it.”

She shrugged. “My parents agreed—if I was a girl, my dad named me. If I were a boy, my mom would.”

“And the universe decided?”

“Apparently.”

“Well,” Pierre said, lifting his glass slightly, “the universe made a good call. It suits you.”

She smiled—not flirtatious, not dismissive. Measured. “So I’ve been told.”

Syd appeared beside them then, setting two drinks down on the table. Vodka, clear and cold, condensation already forming on the glass. She took in Pierre with one glance—curious, assessing, amused.

“Hey,” Syd said easily. “I’m Syd.”

“Pierre,” he replied, standing halfway before she waved him back down.

“No need,” she said, already sitting. Her eyes flicked briefly to Y/n’s phone, then back to him. Not territorial. Just aware.

Y/n wrapped her fingers around her glass and took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in her chest.

She could feel the night opening up around her—the music, the crowd, the possibilities.

“So,” Pierre said after a moment, lifting his glass and taking another sip, “what brought you two down here tonight?”

The music thumped steadily around them, bass heavy enough that it vibrated faintly through the tabletop. The air smelled like alcohol, perfume, and warm bodies, layered thickly enough that it blurred together into something almost sweet. Y/n leaned back against the cushioned bench, one leg tucked beneath her, posture relaxed in a way that was entirely deliberate.

“Just here to have a bit of fun,” she said lightly, flashing him a wink.

Syd immediately elbowed her in the ribs—not hard, just enough to remind her she wasn’t alone. “Work’s been stressful,” she added, her tone easy but grounded.

Pierre winced in sympathy. “Tell me about it. I’m in business management while doing uni at the same time.” He shuddered dramatically. “Absolutely miserable.”

“That sounds like hell,” Syd said sincerely.

“It is,” he confirmed. “So what about you two? Where do you work?”

“Security,” Y/n answered without hesitation.

The word came easily. Too easily. Lying like that was second nature—no pause, no overthinking. She and Syd had spent years perfecting the art of sounding honest while saying as little as possible. Being women only made it easier. People underestimated them constantly and saw what they wanted to see. A friendly smile. A pretty face. A harmless presence.

It was useful.

“Damn,” Pierre whistled. “That’s rough. Long hours?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Syd said, rolling her shoulders as if already tired just thinking about it. “Night shifts, day shifts, everything in between. And then trying to sleep when your neighbour decides two in the afternoon is the perfect time to blast music?”

She shot Y/n a pointed look.

Y/n lifted her hands innocently. “It’s not my fault you insist on sleeping when I’m awake.” She turned back to Pierre with another playful wink. “This woman guards her sleep like it’s classified information.”

Pierre laughed. “I don’t blame her. If I don’t get enough sleep, I’m useless.”

“Same,” Y/n hummed, lifting her glass and taking a slow sip.

Syd tipped her head toward Pierre’s drink. “What are you having?”

He glanced down at it, frowning slightly. “Honestly? No idea. My brother ordered it, decided it was too strong, and traded me.” He sniffed it. “It’s got a tang to it.”

“Let me try,” Y/n offered, already reaching for it.

Syd sighed. “Alcoholic.”

“I am not,” Y/n said automatically. “Nikolai is an alcoholic.”

“Just because he drinks more than you doesn’t mean you’re not one,” Syd replied, crossing her arms.

Pierre blinked, clearly lost.

“Nikolai’s a coworker,” Syd said smoothly. “He usually comes out with us, but he’s stuck working tonight.”

“Oh,” Pierre nodded quickly. “Got it. Didn’t mean to pry.”

Y/n took a measured sip of his drink, rolling it across her tongue thoughtfully. “Peachy. Vodka base. Sweet, goes down easy—but there’s that hand-sanitizer bite.” She handed it back. “I’m guessing rum’s mixed in too.”

Pierre stared at her. “That’s… impressively specific.”

She shrugged. “Practice.”

He laughed, then glanced sideways again, eyes lingering on a table off to the side. His voice dropped slightly. “You two feeling safe?”

Y/n followed his gaze.

Krueger sat with Yegor and a few others she recognized instantly—operators, all of them. Even dressed down, even in the low lighting, he was unmistakable. Blonde hair pulled back. Broad shoulders relaxed in a way that suggested coiled readiness rather than ease. He wasn’t drinking much. Just watching.

Their eyes met.

His expression didn’t change. But something sharpened.

“We’re fine,” Syd said easily, waving her hand dismissively. “Those are just people we know. That one”—she wiggled her fingers vaguely in Krueger’s direction—“gets moody sometimes.”

Krueger narrowed his eyes, then turned back toward Yegor like he hadn’t been looking at Y/n at all.

Pierre blinked. “You’ve got a lot of coworkers.”

“We’re part of an agency,” Syd replied smoothly. “Different contracts. Banks, hospitals, and schools. We rotate a lot—keeps things fair. Harder for anyone to get bribed.”

“Smart,” Pierre nodded. “Do you like it?”

Y/n lifted her glass again, deliberately slow, eyes flicking back toward Krueger once more before returning to Pierre. “It’s interesting,” she said. “What about you?”

He brightened instantly. “Honestly? I hate my job. Can’t wait to finish uni. I’m in environmental sciences.”

“Oh?” Y/n leaned forward, genuine interest lighting her eyes.

“I want to be a forest ranger,” he continued. “Or work in a national park. Somewhere quiet.”

“That actually sounds amazing,” she said. “Being outside all the time.”

“It’s been my dream forever,” he said, eyes drifting briefly over her before snapping back up, a little sheepish.

She smiled—not too much, not too little.

“I wanted to be a police officer,” she said lightly. “Didn’t quite work out. Now I just do security.”

“I bet you see some stuff though,” Pierre said.

Syd took a sip of her drink, watching the exchange closely.

Y/n reached for the two shot glasses Syd had brought back earlier. “Want a shot?”

Pierre hesitated only a second. “Why the hell not?”

They counted down together and knocked them back. Y/n barely reacted. Pierre, on the other hand, coughed and reached immediately for his drink.

“Jesus,” he spluttered. “What was that? Paint thinner?”

“Seventy percent,” Syd said cheerfully. “I was hoping Kirsten would gag.”

Y/n shot her a glare. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

Pierre squinted at her glass. “What are you drinking?”

She slid it toward him. “Try it.”

He took a careful sip, nose wrinkling. “Fruity—but a really strong vodka taste.”

Y/n laughed and reclaimed her drink. “Guess we’re just more used to drinking over here.”

She leaned back again, satisfied.

Across the room, Krueger watched her over the rim of his glass—expression unreadable, jaw tight.

Y/n took another long sip of her drink, the ice clinking softly as she tipped the glass back. The vodka burned less now—either the bartender had gone lighter this round, or her body had already adjusted. She let her foot drift forward, brushing Pierre’s leg beneath the table as if by accident, then pulled it back just as casually.

“So,” she said, leaning in slightly, eyes bright, “be honest with us, Mr. American.” She flashed him a grin. “European girls or American girls?”

Pierre’s ears turned red almost instantly.

Syd noticed and snickered into her glass. “Oh, you broke him.”

“I—uh—honest?” Pierre asked, glancing around the club, scanning faces as if he expected his brother or friends to materialize out of nowhere and catch him mid-confession.

“We appreciate honesty here,” Y/n said smoothly. “And I won’t tell anyone.”

He exhaled, shoulders sagging in mock defeat. “Alright. European women.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know why. You’re just… different. Finer, I guess.”

Y/n smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I’m American,” Syd said dryly, lifting her glass. “I’m staying out of this.”

Pierre blinked. “You are?”

“Yeah,” Y/n said before Syd could elaborate, angling her body slightly toward him. “She moved here for work and never left.”

“Brave,” Pierre laughed.

“Well,” Y/n said lightly, taking another sip, “you learn a few things over here. Like how to be independent.”

She brushed her foot against his leg again—less accidental this time.

Pierre swallowed, clearly trying to keep up.

Syd shot Y/n a warning look. Y/n ignored it. “So… did you come here just to make friends?”

Her head felt pleasantly light now, warmth spreading through her limbs. The shot from earlier chose that moment to remind her it existed.

“Well,” Pierre hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, his face going even redder.

Y/n nodded knowingly. “You wanted to go home and tell your friends you hooked up with a pretty European girl.”

Syd laughed into her drink just as Y/n finished hers in two quick swallows, setting the empty glass down with a soft thud.

“Don’t say that so loud,” Pierre groaned, half-laughing, half-horrified.

Y/n burst into laughter, Syd joining her. “Relax,” Y/n said, wiping at the corner of her eye. “That’s not a crime. As long as everyone consents—and the woman lets you brag.”

She winked.

Pierre buried his face in his arms on the table, shoulders shaking. “You’re evil.”

“Only a little,” Y/n grinned.

They kept teasing him like that for a few minutes—light, harmless, the kind of back-and-forth that made the music and crowd fade into background noise. Eventually Syd’s glass emptied, and she stood.

“I’m getting more,” she said, eyeing Y/n critically. “That shot hit you harder than you think.”

“Get me another one,” Y/n said immediately, blinking a bit too often.

Syd rolled her eyes. “This is your last shot. After that, you’re on water—or I’m calling Krueger over to escort you home.”

“Don’t,” Y/n pouted. “I’m having fun.”

“Then behave,” Syd replied, smirking as she headed toward the bar.

The moment Syd disappeared into the crowd, Pierre leaned closer. “If you want another shot, my brother’s got a bunch.”

Y/n blinked at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. She won’t notice if we’re quick.”

She pretended to think about it, lips pursed dramatically. “I don’t want to be called an alcoholic.”

Pierre laughed. “How much do you actually drink?”

“Like… once a month,” Y/n said, words starting to blur together just a little. “Can’t drink much when I’ve got work.”

“Then you’re fine,” he said easily, standing and offering her his hand.

She took it, wobbling slightly as she stood. “Fuck,” she laughed, bending forward a bit. “That shot was strong. I need to piss.”

“I’ll take you,” Pierre said, arm slipping around her waist to steady her.

Across the room, brown eyes followed them.

The bathroom was chaos—music muffled through the walls, women packed shoulder to shoulder, and laughter bouncing off tiled surfaces. Y/n ended up sitting on the floor for a few minutes, trying—and failing—to help another drunk girl fix her hair. They dissolved into giggles instead, Y/n brushing the girl’s hair with her fingers until it looked marginally better.

“Good enough,” the girl declared, helping Y/n up.

They staggered back out together, still laughing, before peeling off in different directions. Pierre caught Y/n by the arm just in time to stop her from walking straight into a wall.

“Careful,” he said gently, guiding her toward the stairs at the far side of the club.

A group of men stood there—similar build, similar clothes, similar accents. Americans. Pierre’s people.

Y/n leaned into him slightly, still smiling, the room spinning just enough to feel dangerous—but fun.

“Fuck,” Y/n muttered, the word dragging out of her mouth as she blinked hard, the room tilting no matter how much she tried to focus. The music felt too loud now, each beat thudding behind her eyes. “Okay. Maybe… maybe no more shots.”

She stared at the men around the table like they were arranged slightly wrong, faces blurring at the edges. Her head felt wrapped in cotton—warm, heavy, and distant.

“I think you’re good,” Pierre said quickly, leaning closer. “You alright?”

“Dizzy,” Y/n mumbled. Her tongue felt thick. “I need to sit.”

“Yeah—here.” Pierre pulled a chair out for her, steadying it with one hand as she swayed.

She barely registered the seat behind her before a hand—larger and firmer than Pierre’s—closed around her bicep and yanked her upright.

Y/n gasped softly, blinking up at the man in front of her.

There were two of him.

Both blond. Both sharp-eyed. Both unmistakably Sebastian Krueger, standing far too close. The double image swam before finally snapping into one as her vision struggled to cooperate.

Pierre took an instinctive step back, whatever buzz he’d been riding evaporating in an instant.

“What are you doing over here?” Krueger asked calmly.

His eyes never left Pierre.

“Just—uh—drinking,” Pierre said with a nervous smile. “Having a few shots.”

Krueger didn’t respond. His attention shifted abruptly to Y/n. He tilted her chin up with two fingers and pried one eyelid open, studying her pupil with unsettling focus.

Too wide.

Not just drunk-wide.

His jaw tightened.

“Hi, Seb,” Y/n slurred finally, the effort of forming words exhausting. She tried to pull away from his grip and promptly lost her balance, stumbling forward.

Krueger didn’t catch her.

Pierre did.

The American’s hands went automatically to her waist, steadying her as she giggled faintly and leaned into him, cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused.

Krueger’s mouth curved into something that looked like a smile—but wasn’t.

“What are you doing with this guy?” He asked, his voice deceptively light as he looked at Y/n.

She scrunched her nose, visibly fighting through the fog in her head. The thought process was slow, like wading through water. Then it clicked.

“He wants to fuck a Euro woman,” she slurred bluntly, leaning harder into Pierre, her legs refusing to cooperate.

Pierre froze.

Krueger’s eyes flickered—amusement, recognition, something sharper underneath. “Oh?” he said softly. “You flirt with him a lot, then?”

Pierre swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing to a man who radiated controlled violence.

“You were mean,” Y/n accused, pointing unsteadily at Krueger. Her arm dropped, and she pitched forward again.

This time, Krueger caught her.

He pulled her away from Pierre with ease and lowered her to the floor, guiding her back until she was sitting against the wall. She blinked up at him, dazed, breathing shallowly and unevenly.

“Yeah,” Krueger said quietly. “I know.”

He crouched just enough to bring his face close to hers, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “But you don’t get to put yourself in danger just to make a point and flirt with other guys when that is our thing.”

Her unfocused eyes tried to follow his face. The words didn’t quite land.

“I’ll take her home,” Pierre offered quickly, eager to be helpful, eager to escape the tension. “She’s had way too much.”

Krueger straightened slowly and looked at him.

“Really?” he asked, lips curling into a thin, knowing smirk. He stepped aside and gestured toward the exit. “Be my guest.”

Pierre blinked, confused—but he didn’t hesitate. He helped Y/n to her feet, then, realizing she couldn’t walk, scooped her up carefully and headed for the doors.

Krueger watched them go.

He didn’t move until they were almost out of sight.

“Krueger?” Syd’s voice cut in sharply.

She stood beside him now, eyes narrowed as she watched Pierre carry Y/n out. She set the drinks she’d been holding down hard on the table. Yegor immediately grabbed one.

“What’s happening?”

Syd stepped forward, but Krueger caught her wrist without looking.

“Don’t,” he said calmly. “I’ll take her back.”

Syd searched his face for a long second, then let go. “She’s not just drunk,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Krueger replied.

He waited a beat longer, then followed—moving not toward the parking lot, but toward the darkened building next door. Its windows were broken, its interior abandoned.

He slipped inside through a shattered pane with barely a sound.

Pierre was there, standing awkwardly with Y/n in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder as she tried to make sense of where she was.

Krueger stepped out of the shadows.

Pierre turned too late.

His eyes widened as he registered the figure stepping out of the shadows, and the sudden shift in his grip sent Y/n slipping from his arms. She hit the concrete with a dull thud and immediately started whining, curling in on herself, disoriented and miserable.

Krueger watched it happen with open amusement.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t shout. He simply advanced, boots echoing softly in the empty space as Pierre scrambled backward, panic stripping the drunken bravado from his face. He backed up until metal met his spine—a support pole, cold and unforgiving.

“Feeling lucky tonight?” Krueger asked mildly.

The knife appeared in his hand as if it had always been there.

Pierre’s gaze locked onto it, breath hitching. “What—what are you—”

“Shhh.” Krueger lifted a finger, smiling faintly. “Talking doesn’t help you now.”

Pierre’s eyes darted wildly. “Who the fuck are you?”

Krueger didn’t answer. Pierre reached for his back pocket on instinct, and in a single smooth motion, Krueger caught his wrist and twisted. The phone clattered to the ground, skidding away before Pierre could react.

Krueger kicked it out of reach.

“You’re very lucky,” he said conversationally, stepping closer. “If she weren’t drugged, you wouldn’t still be standing.”

“I didn’t—” Pierre started, voice cracking.

Krueger tilted his head, the gesture curious, almost gentle. “Didn’t what?”

The knife pressed lightly beneath Pierre’s jaw—just enough for him to feel it.

“Didn’t drug her?” Krueger continued calmly. “Didn’t plan to walk her out of here while she couldn’t think straight?” He chuckled under his breath. “You’re not clever enough for that. And even if you were—she’d burn your whole world down before we found her.”

“You can’t fucking kill me,” Pierre spat, desperation leaking through.

Krueger laughed softly. “I can.”

The smile faded. What replaced it was flat and absolute.

“And I don’t like men who do this,” he added. “Especially not to someone who belongs to me.”

“Belongs to—” Pierre scoffed weakly. “She looks single.”

Krueger leaned in close. “You don’t need a ring to be claimed.”

What happened next was quick.

Pierre made a sound—short, strangled—then collapsed, hands clawing uselessly as his body hit the concrete. Krueger didn’t watch him finish falling. He was already turning away.

Y/n whimpered again, shifting where she lay, her face pale and unfocused. Krueger crouched beside her, studying her expression with sharp concern now mixing with the amusement.

“If you throw up in my truck,” he said dryly, “you’re cleaning it.”

He hauled her upright with ease, slinging her against his chest as she protested weakly. She clung to his jacket, confused and heavy-limbed.

Krueger didn’t slow as he carried her out.

Whatever was left behind wasn’t worth his time.

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