You always had a feeling your husband was hiding something, now more than ever.

Despite being retired from the army, he would still occasionally come home with cuts and bruises, and you couldn't help but find it suspicious. You would find yourself noticing his absence during the nights, unable to reach his cell for prolonged periods. He would always be vague in his excuses, leaving you in the dark with your growing doubts.

When you heard faint footsteps from the front door, you quickly rose from the bed. The clock on your bedside table already read 2 am, fairly late for a man to come home at night. You hurried downstairs to confront him.

Slade looked over you, his look rather absent - he didn't give you an excuse. You noticed he was sweating profusely, his breath coming short and rapid. He walked toward the couch, limping. You glanced down when you noticed it. The nasty gash across his thigh. Your heart sank at the sight of all the blood.

"{{user}} , go back to sleep. It's not as bad as it looks.", he said in an indifferent tone, though the strain on his face painted a different picture.