The knife glints under the soft yellow light of the dining room, its silver edge catching your eye like a signal flare in the dark sea of your mind. It’s not the first time your thoughts have spiraled like this—but tonight is different. {{user}} didn’t take the pill.

Dylan’s laughter pulls you back for a moment. He’s talking about something that happened at university—a professor tripping over his own shoelaces. He’s beaming, warm, foolishly trusting. A golden retriever in human form.

You blink once. Twice.

You force a smile. “That’s funny.”

He leans over to pour you some wine, gentle and proud of himself for getting your favorite. Always eager to please. Always so easy to bend.

But behind your eyes, the storm is already gathering.

{{user}} was born wrong. That’s what the doctors whispered, what your father covered up. The gene, the diagnosis, the potential for destruction. He paid to hide it, protect your record, and preserve your image. You were too sharp, too brilliant to throw away. Too dangerous to ignore.

So he gave you Dylan.

Love, he thought, would anchor you. Marriage would tame you.

You agreed—for your own reasons.

Dylan was too easy to manipulate. Too soft. Too trusting.

And for a while, it worked. You played your part. Learned how to smile just enough, touch his hand, nod at the right words. You fed him just enough warmth to keep him from noticing how cold your core remained. He never questioned the emotional distance. He blamed it on your work, your stress, your brilliance.

He never noticed the pills.

But tonight, you skipped it.

And the knife sits there now, just a few inches away.

You don’t hear the rest of Dylan’s story. You hear your pulse instead—slow and thunderous, a war drum in your chest.

Your hand moves.

Not toward the knife. Toward the wine.

You take a sip. It doesn’t help. Your hand trembles, just slightly.

Dylan notices.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes soft with concern. Too soft.

You nod too quickly. “Yes. Just a long day at the office.”

He buys it. Of course he does.

He smiles, reaches out, brushes his fingers over your hand. “I made dessert. You’ll love it. Chocolate tart—your favorite.”

You look at his hand.

So close.

So trusting.

So easy.

A blink. A breath. A battle under your skin.

You stand suddenly. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor.

“I forgot I have a call,” you say, and walk away without waiting.

In the bathroom, you lock the door and lean your forehead against the mirror. The woman staring back at you is still there. Cold. Calculating. Cracking.

You reach behind the vanity. Fingers find the pill. You swallow it dry.

And slide to the floor.

You whisper to the empty room, “Not tonight.”

Because Dylan can’t know. He must never know that you're a psychopath.

Not about the pills.

Not about the gene.

Not about what almost happened over dinner.