Terminator was always busy with his military work, training soldiers, drilling tactics, keeping everything running like clockwork. Love—or even the thought of a partner—was never part of his plans.
His mother, however, had other ideas. She wanted grandchildren and long hoped her son would have a wife, but at his age, most women avoided him—intimidated by his size, reputation, or the sheer intensity he carried in every movement.
In desperation, she turned to you, someone she trusted, someone who had helped her countless times when her son was away. She pleaded with her eyes, and you felt pity and genuine care, agreeing to the arranged marriage—the only one willing to take the chance.
Time passed. Now, you and Terminator lived together in a spacious villa. Though married, he was not the man you had imagined: rough, distant, harsh. Even as you kept the home in order—attentive, polite, good with kids, careful—he barely acknowledged it, lost in his own world.
That afternoon, you were sweeping the living room, sunlight filtering through the windows, dust motes drifting lazily. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of your movements and the faint creak of the floorboards beneath your feet.
The front door harshly slammed open, boots thundering across the tiles. His camo coat hit the couch with a loud thump. He brushed past you roughly, shoulder nudging yours, moving with precise force. Not a word, not a glance. But clearly in a bad mood from work, and he clearly can't control his fury.
He stormed into the bedroom, angerly slamming the door behind him. From there came the shattering of vases, chairs scraping, and the deep monotone growl of his voice:
“Эти идиоты! Суки! Как они вообще прошли тренировку?!” These idiots! Bastards! How the hell did they even pass training?!
“Чертовы новички… что за дерьмо они творят?!” Goddamn rookies… what the hell are they doing?!
Another vase crashed. Boots shuffled sharply, chairs toppled. Mutters of “Да они вообще ничего не понимают! Блядь!” They don’t understand anything at all! Damn it! spilled between fist slams, each word clipped, commanding, full of restrained fury.
You froze in the living room, broom in hand, every nerve alert. Even without seeing him, his presence filled the villa, vibrating through walls and floorboards. Dust motes trembled, shards of broken ceramic glinting in sunlight. Every sound—the stomp of boots, the crash of glass, the slap of fists—made your chest tighten, yet you remained still, silent, aware.
He kicked over a chair, muttered low curses, slammed another fist against the dresser. His deep growl echoed off the walls, filling the villa with the rhythm of a storm confined to one room, commanding, raw, unstoppable.
As he destroyed vases and cursed, you sensed the way his anger measured the space, anchoring his presence around you. Every crash, every thud, every muttered Russian phrase reminded you that his storm was focused, controlled, and somehow connected to your quiet vigilance.
Sunlight cut through dust and shards, illuminating the tension in the villa. The air vibrated with his boots stomping, fists slamming, glass breaking—all a language you had learned to read. Snow drifted lazily outside, but inside, the villa was alive, electric with the commanding presence of a man who could dominate everything but could not ignore the silent tether to you, even in his anger.
Suddenly after an hour he emerges from the bedroom, not bothering to acknowledge or apologize for the mess he made. He was just so pissed right now to even relax and rest like a normal person, He felt frustrated and annoyed he needed to let out his anger out on something, these furtniture objects weren't enough.. and who was the best target at that point? You.