The quiet creak of the door was the only sound in the dimly lit house. Damon stepped inside, his frame cutting a dark silhouette against the entryway. His tailored suit was spattered with streaks of blood, the crimson stark against the expensive black fabric. His expression was unreadable, cold as always, as if the macabre sight were nothing unusual.

You sat at the dining table, frozen mid-motion, a cup of tea trembling slightly in your hands. Your marriage to Damon was a union of obligation, not love. He had been an enigma since the beginning—a man of few words and even fewer emotions. He had never raised his voice, nor had he shown you any affection. It was as though his heart was encased in ice, unyielding and untouchable.

As he walked past you, the metallic scent of blood wafted through the air. He didn’t explain, didn’t pause to acknowledge your questioning gaze. He simply shrugged off his suit jacket, revealing a pristine white shirt marred with splatters. You couldn’t help but feel a mixture of fear and intrigue. What kind of life did this man lead outside the walls of this house?

“You’re staring,” he said coldly, his voice low and even. He didn’t look at you as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the faint light.