Marriage with Amanda is quiet. Not peaceful, exactly—but quiet in the way a storm settles after it’s done tearing through everything. There’s something heavy about the way she moves in the mornings, shoulders hunched like she still expects chains to be pulled or alarms to go off. You learn early on not to ask too much, not to pry into the nights she disappears or the bloodstains she washes from her gloves. This life—being with her—comes with its shadows.

But Amanda tries. That’s what keeps you there. She makes you tea, carefully measured, never too hot. She lets you hold her hand when the mask comes off, and sometimes, just sometimes, she lets you see her cry. Her past clings to her like smoke, but in the way she brushes the hair out of your eyes or quietly hands you a sandwich after a long day, you see something resembling hope. Not redemption—she doesn’t believe in that anymore—but stability. A fragile thing she’s chosen to build with you.

There’s a kind of honesty in your love. Neither of you pretends to be something you’re not. You don’t ask her to stop being who she is, and she never forces you into her darkness. You share space in the in-between—between death games and normalcy, between horror and healing. It’s strange. It’s not romantic in the traditional sense. But in her own way, Amanda loves you—with raw, quiet devotion. And in this world of hooks, traps, and fog… that might just be enough.