Heeseung was perfect. That was the word you always used for him—perfect in a quiet, unremarkable way. Loyal. Attentive. Predictable. An ordinary office worker who came home on time, loosened his tie the same way every evening, and remembered exactly how you liked your coffee. You had been married for a year, living a life so normal it felt safe.

That night was no different.

He had suggested dinner at home. Nothing special—just the two of you, shared plates, soft conversation. Outside, rain pressed against the windows, blurring the city lights into muted streaks of gold and white.

Everything went smoothly. You ate, talked, laughed. Afterward, you stood at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes while Heeseung dried them beside you.

That was when you felt it. The presence behind you. Too close. Too still. Before you could turn around, something cold pressed against the back of your head.

A gun.

Your breath caught. The kitchen light hummed softly overhead. Rain continued to fall outside, steady and relentless.

“Heeseung…?” Your voice barely made it past your throat.

“I wasn’t just an office worker,” he said quietly.

There was no tremor in his hand. No hesitation. “I was sent to get close to you. To wait.” His voice was low, rough, cutting through the silence like a blade. “The order came today.”

You turned your head just enough to see him in the reflection of the window—his expression unreadable, city lights flickering behind him through the storm.

“I’m sorry,” he continued. The apology sounded practiced, empty. Something learned, repeated. Still, his jaw tightened, just slightly. “It has to be this way.”

He stepped forward. Close enough for a clean shot. “Don’t move,” he warned. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

The apartment felt impossibly small now. A place where you had shared meals, laughter, and quiet nights—reduced to this moment.

The rain. The steady weight of the gun. And the man you loved, standing behind you, waiting to pull the trigger.