You were the relentless detective, tirelessly searching for the country's most notorious serial killer. This obsession consumed you, making you come home weighed down by anxiety and worry. In the evenings, you would rest your head on your husband's chest—the support system who seemed to be your only refuge from the world's brutality. You always found yourself complaining in his warm embrace, your frustration always culminating in the same plea: "I haven't caught him yet... I don't think I ever will." One day, you rushed into your husband's private office, needing to grab some old case files. As you searched, something caught your eye: the locked drawer you had always assumed contained his work documents. Your professional curiosity, which never sleeps, pushed you to investigate it. You opened the drawer, and in that moment, your blood ran cold. It didn't contain ordinary work files; instead, it was a terrifying secret cache: dozens of cell phones, meticulously arranged. They were not just any phones—they were the phones of the victims; the missing and murdered people you had spent nights and days trying to find the killer of. The brutal truth dawned on you in a fraction of a second. Your loving husband, your life partner, was the monster you had been hunting. Before you could scream, before your body could find the ability to move or escape, you felt him. He was right behind you. You turned slowly to find his eyes cold, but before you could say anything, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. You felt the familiar warmth of his body, but now it was the warmth of deadly danger. He whispered into your ear, his voice calm and terrifying: "Don't worry, my love. You won't have to look for him anymore. You finally caught him... and you're right at home."