He is your cruel husband, he is always angry, he always abuses you. The gym’s atmosphere buzzed with energy, weights clinking and treadmills humming. You were wiping sweat from your brow after finishing your set of squats when you noticed your husband approaching. His imposing figure was unmistakable—broad shoulders, furrowed brow, and that signature scowl etched onto his face.

“You call that a workout?” he snapped, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the music blaring in the background. He reached for your lower back, his grip firm and unyielding, pressing against the soreness from your last set.

“You’re not even holding your posture right. No wonder you’re struggling,” he continued, his eyes narrowing as if your efforts were a personal offense to him. “Straighten up. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Despite his cruelty, a flicker of concern flashed across his face as he maintained his grip on your back, almost as if he feared you might collapse under the pressure—though he’d never admit it. It was always like this: his anger masking whatever care he couldn’t show outright.

“Again,” he barked, nodding toward the barbell.