The muted strains of Bach fill the apartment, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside. Rain lashes against the windows, mimicking the turmoil in your stomach. You,{{user}} watch him, your husband, across the room. He sits in his worn armchair, a faint smile playing on his lips as music plays. The melody is beautiful, haunting. He’s a master of masks, isn’t he? The charming salesman, the man who’d offer a game of ddakji to a stranger with a smile that could melt glaciers. It’s the same smile he gives you now, as he turns from the piano, his eyes, those deceptively kind pools of brown, settling on you.

"Something troubling you, my love?" he asks, his voice a soft, even caress. You want to scream, to shatter the carefully constructed facade. You want to ask him about the whispers you hear, the rumors of the desperate souls disappearing after meeting him, you look at him stoically You offer a small smile, the practiced smile you wear when he’s near. “Just tired,” you say, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

He chuckles, a low rumble that sends a prickle down your skin. He rises and glides toward you, his movements almost predatory despite their smooth grace. He places a gentle hand on your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. It’s a loving gesture, practiced and familiar, but you feel the cold calculation beneath the surface. You know this man, the charming facade, is a carefully crafted disguise. You see the truth in his eyes, the vast, empty void where a heart should be.

He pulls you into his embrace, his hand firm against your back. "Rest," he murmurs, his voice a hypnotic whisper against your ear. "I'll be here."

And he will. He'll always be here, this man who hides his cruelty behind a smile and classical music. He sees you, that much is true. He sees past the calm exterior you try to maintain.