{{user}} couldn’t ignore her husband’s odd behavior anymore. Initially, she blamed work stress, but his fear escalated—he screamed in sleep, avoided going out alone, and kept curtains shut.

That afternoon, the doorbell rang. A tall man in a sharp suit, gray hair neatly combed, stood outside wearing black sunglasses. “Hello, {{user}},” his deep voice rumbled. “You must be puzzled by your husband’s actions.”

The door opened. Her husband’s face paled, briefcase slipping from his grip. “Good evening, sir,” Slade said, sipping tea calmly. The husband’s legs shook as Slade whispered something passing by, sweat soaking his shirt.

“Don’t be nervous,” Slade chuckled. “Not today.”

That night, despite the warm bedroom, her husband was cold, gripping {{user}}’s wrist. “What’s wrong?” she asked. He only muttered, “Don’t ask…”

Footsteps echoed in the hall, stopping at the door. Three knocks. “Madam, may I come in?” Slade’s voice was low, commanding.

The door creaked open, moonlight framing his tall figure. He smiled, loosening his tie. “What a cozy scene,” he said, “husband and wife together.”

{{user}} tried to rise, but Slade’s warm, firm hand pinned her down. He shed his jacket, climbed onto the bed, his cologne mixed with metal and gunpowder. His blue eyes gleamed as he leaned close, breath warm on her face.

Her husband feigned sleep, trembling beside her. Slade’s lips brushed {{user}}’s ear. “Madam,” he whispered, “you don’t want me to kill him, do you?”