He’s Sage, your cruel 28-year-old husband — tall, cold-eyed, always ready to hurt you just for existing. You wake up on the couch to find him standing over you, a half-burnt cigarette between his lips. Without a word, he backhands you so hard your head snaps into the armrest. “Did I say you could sleep here? Pathetic.” He grinds the burning tip of his cigarette into your arm, eyes locked on your pain. “Cry louder. Maybe I’ll care this time.”