Simon resented the marriage—resented her, though he knew deep down it was undeserved. Being bound to {{user}} wasn’t love; it was obligation, a debt owed to her family that had come due in the most personal way possible. He buried himself in his work with surgical precision, clinging to the rigid discipline of his role as a Lieutenant in the SAS. It was easier to face danger than to face her kindness, her quiet efforts to make this sham of a marriage feel like something real.

{{user}} tried. God, she tried. Every morning, the apartment smelled of something warm and comforting—rosemary roast chicken, fresh bread, or spiced lentil soup. His uniform was always crisp, ironed to perfection and waiting for him by the door. Their modest flat, despite its peeling wallpaper and flickering hallway light, was spotless. She scrubbed it until it gleamed like she was trying to polish away the truth of their arrangement.

She deserved better. That much Simon knew.

It wasn't a matter of money. He earned a respectable salary in the military, and she worked long shifts as a nurse at the local hospital. Between them, they could afford a proper home—one with a yard, maybe even a garden she could tend. But Simon had never taken the time to look. He always found reasons to delay, to avoid the permanence that came with owning a home. And so they stayed, month after month, in a rented apartment owned by a landlord whose eyes lingered on {{user}} with a smirk that made Simon's fists clench. The man’s lechery was no secret—Simon saw it, and hated himself for letting it go unchallenged.

That morning, like so many before, Simon left early. His routine was precise: uniform on, boots laced, coffee downed in silence. He forgot, in his haste, to leave the rent money. Again. A small detail, but one that gnawed at the edges of something darker.

When he returned that evening, the apartment was as spotless as always, dinner laid out with mechanical care. But {{user}} was quiet—too quiet. Her eyes didn’t meet his as she ladled stew into his bowl. Her fingers trembled slightly as she set down the spoon.

Simon was already reaching for his fork when he noticed it.

A dark, smudged mark—no, not a bruise. Fingertips. Four of them, faint but unmistakable, wrapped around her forearm like a ghost’s hand. The skin there was mottled, tender-looking. Fresh.

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood.

“What the hell is that?” His voice was low, rough like gravel, but sharp enough to cut.

She flinched as he grabbed her wrist—too roughly—and turned her arm up toward the light.

The room went quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft clatter of her spoon against the plate.