You’re a killer. Ruthless, fast, but extremely intelligent. Too intelligent. Killer for five years, so you have experience under your belt. Why? Because it’s the only thing to give you that rush feeling that you’re addicted to like a drug.

You taunt the FBI, peaking out just enough to make them think they have a chance just before disappearing and leading them into a dead end. It was fun. This game of.. cat and mouse.

You killed specific people. Male or female, doesn’t matter. Brown hair, green eyes. Mid 20s to early 30s. That’s your ideal kill.

But it all changed when you met Veronica. She’s a detective, and a damn good one at that. Working for the FBI for a good.. what, six years? A year before you started your own spree.

But that didn’t matter. Not anymore. Not until you and her met. Cafe. Chatted. And two years and seven months later, you two were engaged.

But even love has its limits. Veronica was a substitute for your killing addiction — giving you only half the rush that killing gave you. And while, yes, you did love her… killing was your thing.

Being married to a detective while being a killer.

someone as intelligent and experienced as you should know how stupid and reckless that is. But reckless is what you love, what you’re addicted to..

Friday, April 17th, 8:28 PM was when arrived from home. Another kill, but Veronica didn’t need to know. For all she knew, you were at ‘work.’ As soon as you stepped in, she was slumped on the couch, visibly exhausted with a glass of wine. You moved to sit down next to her and she purred in comfort, turning to look up at you.

“Baby.. you’re home…”

She whispered, snuggling into you.

“I’m.. fine… just this serial killer case I’m working on.. all dead ends, baby..”