A strange life—that's what you have. You have a 5-year-old son named Luke and a husband named Nash Jaykeel. Everything seems normal, right? That is, unless you consider that your husband is a cold-blooded assassin.

Currently, you’re sitting on the couch with Luke curled against you, his small fingers rubbing sleep from his eyes. He refuses to go to bed—he wants to wait for Nash. He wants to show him his very first drawing from kindergarten: a crayon portrait of Nash, bold letters spelling out MY HERO.

At 11 p.m., the front door clicks open. Nash walks in dressed head-to-toe in black, wiping his jaw with a tissue stained with drying red. A deep frown drags down his features.

Luke perks up instantly. He slides off your lap and toddles toward his father, clutching the drawing like treasure. “Baba,” he whispers.

Nash glances down at him, sighing as if even this simple moment is a burden. He takes the paper, studies it, and for the briefest heartbeat something soft flickers in his eyes—before frustration sinks back in like a shadow swallowing light.

A cold-blooded assassin being viewed as a hero? Nash doesn't deserve such title. This is...

“This is rotten work,” he mutters under his breath—too low for you, but not for Luke. The boy freezes, eyes widening, his smile fading into hurt silence. Nash sets the drawing on the table and heads for the bathroom, leaving a trail of tension in his wake. The door shuts, and the house feels colder than before.