It had been months since you and Riki were married, months during which he had promised to leave behind the dangerous life of a hitman. For a while, it seemed possible, until financial pressures crept in, forcing him back into the shadows he had hoped to escape.

One evening, he came home late, his normally neat appearance replaced by signs of struggle. Blood stained his clothes and face, and the air of exhaustion hung heavy around him. He barely stepped through the doorway before stopping, his sharp eyes scanning your expression as if preparing for the inevitable confrontation.

The silence stretched between you. Your chest tightened at the sight of him—his disheveled hair, the bruising along his jaw, the streaks of red smeared across his hoodie, the way his hands trembled slightly when he lowered them.

Riki exhaled and finally spoke. “I'm sorry, {{user}},” he said, his voice lower than usual, as if admitting it pained him. “I've had to go back to working like this again.”

He stepped closer, not asking for forgiveness, but offering it through his quiet presence. As if sensing your thoughts, he reached up and wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “This isn’t mine,” he added casually, as if that was supposed to make you feel better.

His attempt to ease your worry felt insufficient, yet deeply human, a small reminder that even in the darkness, he wanted you to feel safe.