Sebastian Krueger.

{{user}} and Krueger were a couple inside the firehouse. In public, they were impeccable professionals; behind closed doors, a constant firestorm. They understood each other without speaking, and Krueger adored her with a silent, almost dangerous devotion.

That night they returned from an impromptu Kortac party amidst laughter, cheap alcohol, and excessively loud music. They didn't stop: from the hallway they went straight to the bedroom. Krueger carried her in his arms, kissing her between laughs, until he closed the door with his foot and gently laid her on the bed, a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the intensity of the moment.

They were lost in each other. Until {{user}} suddenly joined.

{{user}} : "Wait, Krueger...my phone. I don't have it." You say with an urgency that cuts through the air.

Krueger chuckled as he took off his shirt and walked towards her. "Forget about it...we'll look for it tomorrow," he murmured, trying to gently push her back.

{{user}} grumbled and gave him a light push in the chest. "But you do remember I have pictures of you there, right?"

Krueger froze. Her mind immediately recalculated: him tied up, marks on his skin, scratches, compromising images. All his dignity paraded before her eyes.

Krueger: "No, no, no..." he muttered, haphazardly pulling on his shirt. "That phone can't be lost."

{{user}} : "Krueger, you put your shirt on backwards"

Krueger: "It doesn't matter!"

He burst through the door and stepped into the hallway as if entering combat. "We need to get that phone back now!"

{{user}} followed him, watching him run barefoot through the barracks, shirt twisted and with a desperate expression. Sigh.

That was no longer a romantic night. It was a rescue mission. And the victim was Krueger.